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/ 




A tragical 

s Love sroi^V 






/It PS. Ktary J. Holmes" Hove! 

Nearly TWO MILLION Sold. 


THE NEW BOOK. 


Mrs. Hallam’s Companion 

JUSX QUX. 

"As a writer of domestic stories which are extremely interestini 
without being extravagant, Mrs. Mary J. 'Holmes is unrivalled. 
Her characters are^ true to life, many of them are quaint, 
and all are so admirably delineated that their conducv 
and peculiarities make an enduring 'impression 
upon the reader’s memory.” 


The following is a list of Mary J. Holmes’ Novels : 
TEMPEST AND SUN= DAISY THORNTON. ETHELYN’S 


SHINE. 

ENGLISH ORPHANS. 
HOriESTEAD ON THE 
HILLSIDE. 

'LENA RIVERS. 
MEADOW BROOK. 
DORA DEANE. 

COUSIN MAUDE. 
HARIAN GREY. 

EDITH LYLE. 


CHATEAU D’OR. 
QUEENIE 
TON. 
DARKNESS AND 
DAYLIGHT. 
HUGH WORTHING 
TON. 

CAMERON PRIDE. 
ROSE MATHER. 
GRETCHEN 


MIS- 


TAKE. 

HETHER- niLLBANK. 

EDNA BROWNING. 
WEST LAWN. 
niLDRED. 

FORREST HOUSE. 
HADELINE. 
CHRISTMAS STORIES 
BESSIE’S FORTUNE. 
MARGUERITE. 


UR. HATHERN’S DAUGHTERS. MRS. HALLAM’S COMPANION. (New. 

All handsoniely printed and bound in cloth, sold e-ery where 
and sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price ($1.50), by 

G.W. Dillingham Co., Publishers, 

33 West 23d Street, New York. 


_iilLLINGHAM’S GLOBE LIBRARY, No. 21. 

JANUARY, 18S7. ISSUED MONTHLY. $8.00 PER YEAR. 
ENTERED AT THE NEW YORK POST OFFICE AS SECOND-CLASS MATTER. 


J 0 S £ P H A , 


BY^ 

gu^:rnard meunier. 

It 


w. 



NEW YORK: 



COPYRIGHT, 189S , BY 

Dillingham Co,, Publishers, 

MDCCCXCVII. 

\^All rights reserved.^ 





JOSgPHA, 


I. 

The porte coch^re of the D club has 

been much in evidence this evening, and ever 
and anon the discreet opening of cab, car- 
riage or coup6 has been followed by the 
rustle of silken skirts and quick, feminine 
steps on the smooth marble floors of the mag- 
nificent halls where the sweet fragrance of 
the perfume of the day, violettes de Parma, 
is still lingering in the recesses of the stuc- 
coed ceiling. People in the neighborhood 
can tell you what all this means. 


[5] 


6 


Josipha, 

The thunder of rolling wheels on the 
smooth asphalt at a late hour is no disturb- 
ance when compared with the boisterous 
frolic of still later hours, for the private sup- 
pers at the D club never begin before 

ten o’clock, and when they come to an end, 
nobody knows. * 

People whose calm slumber is being dis- 
turbed about just so many times each month 
are apt not to bear the kindest feelings to- 
ward their arrogant neighbor, and whether 
exaggeration or truth, they insist that not 
half as many carriages call for their fair loads, 
as come there to deposit them. 

This of course is a very serious insinuation, 
an enigma which even we cannot solve for 
you. You know people will talk. 

Still you must remember this: You are in 
a western town; the refreshing mountain air 
of the Rockies is fanning coolness to your 
brow, accustomed, perhaps, to the sultry 
nights of more eastern lands. You are far 
above sea level, and in the near distance your 
eyes behold the snowy caps of lofty peaks 


V 


Josiphci, 7 

on which the yellow moon is streaming her 
soft light. You are in the West indeed, the 
glorious golden West, in the days when this 
part of the hemisphere is buoyant with vital- 
ity, overflowing from the riches of silver 
mines, and where the people think of no to- 
morrow. 

And yet, shall we turn you over to those 
men and w’omen whose night-rest is so rudely 
disturbed on this exquisite spring night? 

Oh, if you are a Westerner you will under- 
stand the situation at once, but shall we suf- 
fer your eastern ears to be shocked and at 
once initiated into the wicked ways of the 
West in those days? 

Of course you are human, and your curi- 
osity has been aroused by all this myste- 
rious “holding back.” After, all, 3'ou will 
only hear some reports, exaggerated no 
doubt, and you will notice significant little 
nods of the head, and promise discretion. 

An hour later, when you settle down in a 
comfortable corner of the hotel’s saloon, you 
will forget your promise, however, over a 


8 


Josdpha. 

glass of strong beverage and a fragrant Ha- 
vana, and you will tell your brother drum- 
mer or cousin or traveling companion, that 

Mr. This, whose wife is at the D Opera 

House with a younger fellow, thinking her 
husband on his way to the mines, is having a 
gay old time at the club; or that Miss Some- 
bod^^else is one of the party ; or Mrs. So- 

and-so who hails from L , where Mr. So- 

and-so, her husband, is a wealthy banker, 
has stopped off for a few days on her way 
East just to say how-do-you-do to old friends 
and to refresh sweet memories of the past. 

But you must not forget the fact that you 
are several thousand feet above the sea-level, 
that you feel yourself, as though you would 
like to faire la noce, and before you know it, 
you may not have been too scrupulous in 
counting your various whiskies and sodas, 
and perchance may find 3^ourself in the morn- 
ing at any other place but your hotel, where 
you should be. But of course, you are in 
the West, the air is so light and brisk, and one 
feels quite different. Pardon me, confrere, 
if I judge you by myself. 


Jos^pha, 9 

But had you followed me, I would have 
taken you through the brightly-lighted mar- 
ble hall, over carpeted oaken staircases, I 
would have coaxed you into the barroom and 
shown you the silver dollars in the floor tiling 
in front of the buffet. 

And presently we would have followed the 
sound of popping champagne corks and you 
would have beheld before you an old English 
hall, beautifully decorated for the occasion — 
you would have seen with your own eyes the 

banker’s wife from L , and Mr. This, 

whose wife had gone to the opera, in order 
to forget the “ sad departure of her beloved 
husband.” 

You would have felt at home at once, too, 
among this jolly, good-natured crowd, and if 
your name had been Mr. John Sullivan, the 

Mr.” and Sullivan ” would have been dis- 
carded at once — presto — you would have 
found yourself simply John,” or, at least, 
“ Sully.” 

Yes, you would have had a good time, still, 
you might have betrayed confidence once 


lo Josdpha, 

again in the hotel saloon's cosy corner over 
whiskies and sodas, or, worse yet, you might 
have made this another excuse for going be- 
yond your limit, for you know you did it the 
other night, and you also remember, you 
blamed it on the light air, our gloriously pure 
mountain air — fie ! our air of which we make 
such capital ! 

Well, you missed your chance, you did not 
behold the pretty girls and gay old boys, Jim, 
Jack and Nora and Jessie, and whatever their 
names may have been. 

Of course, you would not have found much 
of your eastern polish, for the western “ demi- 
mondaine " possesses little of the wit of her 
Parisian sister, whom she imitates well, at 
least, in conscientiously copying her fashions. 
This, however, is not astonishing, for “ Mon- 
sieur” equally lacks the oily manners of a 
modern salon. 

He has wealth- — wealth accumulated by 
mining, large real estate speculations, and 
often he has sprung into prominence as mil- 
lionaire from the darkness of a miner’s hut. 


tl 


josSpha, 

Still, what are the studied bon-mots from ef- 
leminated lips, gathered at the expense of 
bodily development over books? Give me 
the manliness of the West ! Give me, above 
all, its good fellowship ! 

In a country of Sunday laws and hypocrisy, 
for already this part of the country, too, has 
become a target for the temperance man and 
woman, the demimonde” must have its 
peculiar stamp, which makes it more distinct, 
at once more noticeable than its sister caste 
in any other country. 

In Europe, everybody drinks his beer or 
wine, as the habits of the country may be, 
and the respective region may produce more 
or less of one or the other. 

The German sits down in one of his coun- 
try’s famous beer gardens, under a Garten- 
laube,” or the starlit heavens above him, im- 
bibing the amber ** Gerstensaft,” while around 
him nature is weaving, humming, singing. 
His wife has been busy herself all week long 
over her household duties, cooking, ironing, 
washing and keeping the children clean. She 


12 


Josdpha, 

has had no time for visiting, no occasion for 
interchanging of ideas with her sister, who is 
also married, and has, like herself, a large fam- 
ily to look after. 

But Sunday comes, and out they roam into 
the fields and forests with “ Kind und Kegel,” 
as the saying is, a basket full of bread and 
cake and sausages and even Limburger. 

In the depth of the forest, among the pines, 
beech trees and oaks, there is one of those 
old inns to which their fathers and grand- 
fathers and before them others have come, 
and down they sit on the soft forest carpets of 
ferns, mayflowers, lilies, forget-me-nots, eat- 
ing, drinking, gossiping, dancing, frolicking. 

And at night, when the nightingales com- 
mence their tuneful song, and the moon’s 
sickle is smiling between the tall tree-trunks, 
or through the green forest boughs above, 
back they go, singing and laughing on their 
way home. 

They will have hugged close to nature’s 
strong healthy bosom, — they will have for- 
gotten their cares for the time being, their 


jos^pha. 13 

toil will seem light, and they will enter upon 
a new week, recreated, healthy, looking for- 
ward to another Sunday with keen anticipa- 
tion. 

Is this desecration of the Sabbath ? 

What would you do for the masses of 
laboring men and woman which constitute 
the masses of the earth ? 

Or follow me to the Caf6 Chantant sur 
quelque Boulevard de Paris de cen^ve ou de 
Marseilles, sit down with me under the pro- 
tecting awning, by one of those round tables 
there and sip your wine, or, for that matter, 
do not drink, just listen to the music and 
other people’s joyful badinage, and forget 
your own troubles. 

Or ride with me on blue ^‘Lac Leman,’' to 
one of those pretty resorts which nestle on 
its green borders. 

Take your verre de vin rouge ou blanc’* 
— (glass of red or white wine) — de petit vin 
neuf (of new wine) and look on the merry 
dancers or listen to the sound of happy 
voices from the waters of the lake. 


14 Josdpha. 

Desecration of Sunday ! Quoi ? What 
do we live for? 

It is .a pity to think that in the United 
States, and, more so, in strictly American 
cities, a marked boundary line of quarantine 
is drawn between drinking and non-drinking 
women, and that the first, I mean those that 
do not see any harm to indulge in public, 
ordering their little bottle with their dinner, 
are at once the focus for many eyes, man's 
or woman's, whose questioning glances seem 
to ponder who she is or what she is. It is a 
pity too, that more often they are not given 
even the benefit of a doubt, but surrounded 
at once with the odium of irrespectability, 
just because they have availed themselves of 
their so-called personal liberty. 

And with all the Sunday laws, and with all 
the prohibition laws, there is no country on 
the face of the globe where there is so much 
insobriety amongst woman. And so much 
depravity. 

You cannot accuse the foreigners either. 

As though we all did not know that they 


15 


Jos^pha, 

are our own people who make the innocent 
German’s Sunday picnic a scene of obscene 
drinking or a French ball at New York an 
opportunity for some fair one “ demimon- 
daine or dame de nobility doree,” to produce 
a dream of her corrupted, impure imagina- 
tion in some daring combination of tights, 
bare parts and a something, a nothing, about 
her person which she calls Frenchy. 

I think it is the restricted personal liberty 
of our States, and the many dictates begin- 
ning “you must not,” that drive more women 
to perdition ; for the weak alone will suffer 
without opposition. The strong and inde- 
pendent ones burst their fetters. 

But too often the broken walls of their 
prison reveal to them an unknown land and 
many are the wings that are singed. 

In this age of woman’s emancipation, her 
education cannot be too carefully looked 
after, for the new rule means self-depend- 
ence. 

However, here we have been imposing on 
your good nature with some ideas of our 


1 6 .JosSpha. 

own, and we must go back to our story, our 
party. 

We find them at their after-dinner “ caf^- 
noir” and cigarettes. 

The table is still burdened down under the 
load of massive silverware, luscious fruit, and 
above all, many empty bottles, for it is one of 
the rules of these private suppers that no 
bottles emptied during the repast shall be 
removed. 

The chairs are carelessly pulled back from 
the table, in “pele-mele” confusion. 

A forgotten napkin lies here and there on 
a gentleman’s black trouser-leg. 

Forgotten, nay, for his arm is tenderly 
engaged, thrown around a pair of white 
shoulders or a slender waist, or pressed into 
service for the support of a heavy little head 
which wearily, sleepily, has dropped over to 
"his side. 

Above all, the blue smoke from cigarettes, 
and mingled with the smell of these, the per- 
fumes of the women and the vapors of the 
open wine bottles ! 


i7 


Josipha, 

The conversation is animated — animated 
because typical, typical indeed, parceque 
c’est un drame d’amour (because it is a 
tragedy of love). 

Of what other gods could those present be 
the devotees but of Amour and Bacchus? 

Only a few minutes before we entered, a 
gentleman at the head of the table has read 
aloud the following article in to-day’s paper, 
which begins our story, and which has been 
the cause of an extra edition. 

We give it abbreviated. 

For years an eloquent preacher has filled 
the pulpit of the First Presbyterian Church 

of D , and ministered to one of our most 

aristocratic congregations. 

“ His sermons have been printed all over 
the United States, and with them the name 
of Edward Drayton has become known 
everywhere. To-day, this man, adored, 
looked-up to yesterday, is no more than, to 
say the least, a common, ordinary human be- 
ing, with human passions ; to tell the plain 




1 8 Josdpha, 

'truth in plainer words, a deserter, a scoun- 
drel. 

“At his home there is a poor wife dying 
from the shock, there are two girls left be- 
hind, deserted by a wanton father, and into 
one of our best families, disgrace of a mem- 
ber has brought desolation. 

“To the house on the Hill, which is the 
home of Mrs. K., there came to-day an ordi- 
nary-looking letter dated San Francisco. 

“ In a way, which it is unnecessary to make 
known, the D Journal has gained knowl- 

edge of the contents of this letter; suffice it 
it to say that it bears to Mrs. K. a communi- 
cation from her sister, Mrs. Cobourne, of her 
elopement with the only man she ever loved, 
the Rev. Edward Drayton. 

“ These of course are the concentrated con- 
tents of the letter. A reporter calling at 
Mrs. K’s was informed that this lady did not 
wish to make any statement ; but around the 
house, the truth of the report was neither 
denied nor admitted by the servants. 

“There is, however, no doubt about the 


Josipha. 19 

truth ; we had hoped it might have been a 
rumor only ! 

‘‘ It has been ascertained, furthermore, that 

the P agency of detectives has dispatched 

t.wo of its most trustworthy men on the track 
of the fleeing couple. A call at the ‘‘ Mon- 
aco,” one of our most exclusive, most aris- 
tocratic boarding-houses and private family 
hotels, revealed the fact that Mrs. Cobourne 
had given up her apartments a week ago. 
She had told her friends that she expected 
to spend the summer with some eastern ac- 
quaintances in the mountains of California. 

“ It was well-known at the “ Monaco ” that 
the Rev. Edward Drayton was a regular 
caller at the rich widow’s apartments. Still, 
as she was a member of his church, nothing 
more had been thought about it. Perhaps a 
few of the boarders had begun to form opin- 
ions, as could be gleaned from their ready 
talk, when the reporter called, but they had 
wisely kept them to themselves. Mrs. 

Cobourne came to D from the East some 

six years ago. She was one of the most at- 


20 


Josdpha, 

tractive women of D ’s best society. Her 

accomplishments were rare, her wealth con- 
siderable. She had taken a lively interest in 
every prominent movement for the ameliora- 
tion of her sex’s condition, and her purse was 
ever open for charitable work. 

“ The best relations existed between her and 
her married sister, Mrs. K., at whose re- 
quest, in fact, Mrs. Cobourne had come West 
after her husband’s death. 

“At the parsonage everything was in con- 
fusion. The Rev. Edward Drayton left 
there some days ago. It will be remembered 
that the pulpit at his church last Sunday was 
occupied by the Rev. Karr Tutton, of this 
city. Mr. Drayton, for some reason or other, 
having asked-and been given a vacation. 

“However, already his absence had lasted 
longer than expected, and neither had any 

letters been received from him from M , 

the summer resort at the foot of the peak, 
where he had told people he was going, nor 
could his whereabouts there be ascertained 
on telegraphic inquiry. His poor sick wife. 


21 


Josdpha. 

who has been an invalid for years, will prob- 
ably die from the shock, her state is truly piti- 
able. She has no hopes of her husband’s 
return, nor does she seem to ever have pos- 
sessed much confidence in him. 

“ She would have given out many of the de- 
tails of their private life, and the domestic 
relations at the parsonage, undoubtedly, had 
not the shock so completely annihilated her, 
that it became even necessary to summon a 
physician. Latest reports from the parson- 
age convey the idea that her condition is 
aggravating rapidly, and she is not expected 
to live over night. 

“ From the servant, an old darkey woman, 
completely deaf, nothing could be learned. 
From the two girls less still. They were 
convulsed by sobs, and to question them 
much would have been cruel. 

“ The parsonage stands alone, far outside of 
the city limits. It appears that there was 
little connection between it and the outside 
world. Mrs. Drayton had been an invalid, it 
seems, even before the family came West, and 


22 


Josipha, 

one hour before this extra publication, it was 
impossible to find anybody that had been a 
friend and regular caller at the Drayton’s. 

“ Everything points to a well-premeditated 
flight on the part of the guilty couple; prep- 
arations must have been made a long time 
ago. The future, no doubt, will bring out 
many facts about the two actors. Their 
station in life being so high, no suspicion had 
been aroused by any of their acts. But since 
this affair has come to a public ^clat, many 
things that seemed innocent will gain a differ- 
ent aspect. The prominence of the parties 
and the lack of more proofs make it difficult 
for us to say more at the present time. 

These, however, remain indisputable facts : 
a well-known famous preacher, teacher of the 
gospel, has cast off his sheepskin at last, and 
stands before us in his true dress, as the wolf 
he really is. He has' deserted a family, very 
likely will cause his wife’s death, and of his 
spiritual position he took advantage in order 
to drag down with him one of the most re- 
spected women of D . 


23 


Jos dp ha, 

“There is no excuse for him, there are no 
words strong enough to condemn his ac- 
tion.“ 

This article was embellished by a repro- 
duction of the photographs of Mrs. Cobourne 
and the Rev. Edward Drayton. 


24 


Josdpha. 


II. 

I shall never forget the day, nor the nerv- 
ous little chill which crept down my spine 
as the shrill cries of the newsboys were offer- 
ing the extra edition. 

There were many, too, that felt likewise. 

For had we not all been aroused, calmed, 
delighted, feasted, enthused, by the eloquence 
of this man ? 

There came over me, with the news, all at 
one and the same time, a sensation of anguish, 
distrust, disgust and pity. 

I had been his friend for years, and in all 
' these years I had looked up to him as an 
I ideal. The awakening was too sudden. 

After all, man will ever remain a problem 
of guesses. 

And yet, had I had an inkling of the ‘ 
truth, a suspicion of it, I should have noticed, 
long time ago, the difference in the public 


25 


Jos^pha, 

utterances of this man in later years. When 
entering the pulpit, although broad already, 
he had been more austere. But gradually, 
and more so of late, his pleadings had be- 
come more practical; his speeches contained 
no condemnation of human little weaknesses, 
the inheritances of flesh, only an earnest ad- 
monition to overcome them, to do one’s best. 

And these views had endeared him to his 
congregation ; alas ! were they not an excuse 
for his own frame of mind, a gradual prepara- 
tion of the public for such as had happened ? 

Yes, he had been broad in his views — hu- 
man indeed. A strong male, in the robust, 
tormenting, passionate, voluptuous age of 
manhood, his wife an invalid for years. 

And can any one else but an unhealthy, 
weak, sickly, sexless creature be an accuser ? 

Fulldeveloped, robust health means nature, 
and the dictates of nature are and ever will 
be a temptation of St. Anthony himself. 

The younger sister, Mary, had been adopted 
by a childless wealthy couple. How Elsa, 


26 


Josdpha. 


the older one, ever managed to extricate her- 
self from the meshes of the net of over-assid- 
uous religious benefactors, who after the 
reverend’s misstep considered it their duty 
to exterminate the possible contaminating 
influence and inherited moral deformity of a 
lewd parent in the young girl, I shall tell you 
later. 

How ridiculous an assertion this heredity 
of vice, inebriation, vileness, etc., mere psychi- 
cal, physical monstrosities, who surely do 
not constitute some of the cells of the human 
blood, but are bred by surroundings and a 
lack of will. 

Ah, human race, how weak thou art ; how 
thou pleadest thy very weakness and degen- 
eration by these untenable excuses ! 

Hereditary tastes and desires, indeed, 
which must be purged from the system by 
some gold cure, hypnotic “ make-good-be- 
lieve ” performance, etc. 

Allons ! let us admit the truth, let us admit 
our race’s degradation, due to over-education 
and neglect of character, but let us be just ! 


Josipha. 


27 


Oh, there is merit in these inventions and 
discoveries of our progressive age for curing 
diseases and self-acquired tastes, but the 
doctrine of heredity in that sense is all false ! 

Why not go back to the sublime and an- 
cient doctrine of character building, “know 
thyself ” or “ I must, will ; I will, must.” 
Yes, so these good people felt it their duty to 
expel, as it were, the inborn devil out of 
Elsa. 

Now, the life at the parsonage, although 
not an ideal one, had not been anything like 
what the unmerciful press had painted it. 

It is in the nature of a reporter for a paper 
to exaggerate ! 

Whether he really gains an interview or 
not, with an interesting person, makes no dif- 
ference to him. Nor does it hurt his con- 
science that his many lies afflict with more 
anguish and despair the wife of a defaulter 
or a murderer, or all the other relatives who 
are always more or less the greater sufferers 
than the criminal himself. In this way he 
really governs the flood of sympathy or an- 


28 


Josipha. 

tipathy for or against the poor culprit. True 
or untrue his reports are swallowed, digested 
by the eager public, and an opinion formed 
pro or con. In this case the exaggerated re- 
ports represented a picture of quarrels, ill- 
treatment of children— a den ! When on that 
ever unforgetful evening, that terrible shock 
came to me in the shape of an extra edition 
at five cents a number, I at once turned my 
steps towards the parsonage. Involuntarily 
there passed before my mind the former oc- 
casions on which I had visited there ! I can 
now only understand, why I, an old friend of 
the family, had never been urged to call 
more, for every invitation must have been 
extended with severe heartbeating on the 
part of the pastor. Was there not always 
danger of a scene like that I had witnessed 
one day ? 

I remember the shriveled little figure of 
his wife, strapped either to a large rocker, 
which she moved by a stick to and fro, when 
at home, or to the seat of a buggy, when 
out. 




Josipha, 


29 


A mere heap of human flesh and bones, 
mostly bones, of seventy pounds, the legs all 
drawn up under her by spinal meningitis, and 
one arm paralyzed, so that the reins had to be 
looped over her frail body, which was buried 
in pillows and cushions, and always gro- 
tesquely attired. 

She would drive along, guiding the horse 
by peculiar twists of the body and with the 
aid of the one hand. How she ever managed 
to drive alone I do not know. She did it 
some way, and behind a spirited horse at 
that, of the broncho type, lank, w’ell-formed, 
well-harnessed, but treacherous. She had, 
with all the lack of occasions for dressing, a 
mania for dressing what little remained to be 
dressed of her body. And always in the 
latest nuances, always in impossible little 
light shades, pale pinks and blues and greens, 
colors at any rate unsuited for an invalid. 
Her head, in which the bright little eyes 
seemed the only indication of life, was buried 
in costly laces, some very red roses hidden 
amongst them. 


30 


Jos^pJux, 


For an explanation, however, it must be 
said, that through the need of morphine, for 
purely medicinal purposes, the woman's 
system had become so used to a certain 
amount of the drug that she had acquired 
the morphine habit. 

So most of the time the little heap of human- 
ity was under the influence of the narcotic, 
fault finding, quarrelsome, exacting, overbear- 
ing and vain. 

There was nobody in the town of D 

that knew the Reverend’s family circum- 
stances as well as I, for I was about the only 
visitor at the parsonage and had known 
Drayton from boyhood on, having been a 
schoolmate of his. The more I learned of 
his family life, the more I considered him a 
martyr. This wonderfully powerful man, 
built like an athlete, and whose exquisitely 
proportioned body was a delight to behold, 
had fallen in love with a slender, pretty girl, 
on whom he looked down with infinite tender- 
ness from his towering height of six feet. It 
had been a case of love on either side. The 


Josdpha. 


31 


sweet equal disposition of the girl had even 
made me think of matrimony at the time; 
even me, an inveterate bachelor. 

There was in those days in the sunny 
bright smile of the bride no other indication 
but of happiness. 

One would have laughed at the idea of her 
ever becoming a Xantippe in the future. 
She had never been a very intellectual per- 
son, but just such a mate, as a man should 
wish for, whose mind would ponder over the 
problems of life and dive into the hidden 
folds of human nature. Yes, this man was then 
already a philosopher, a realist, and the per- 
fect truthfulness of his speeches made them 
famous and read everywhere! She was very 
little a preacher’s wife, fond of dancing, 
wheeling, golfing, a person that would de- 
cidedly never have been a success for mission- 
ary work. However, her smile — and she 
always had one — cheered, charmed, and won 
everybody, and the true mission of her life, 
as it should be the mission of every wife 
was : to please her husband. Her presence 


^2 


JosSpha, 

became a recreation for him at once. Such 
a queer little girl-wife was she, that at times 
people were even scandalized by her say- 
ings — frank, outspoken, chic^ piquant — little 
things that would have sounded coarse in 
other people’s mouths, in her’s never, accom- 
panied as they were by her peculiar manner- 
ism. After the birth of Elsa, however, this 
frail constitution, so little made for the per- 
formance of maternity, and under no circum- 
stances at least for the bearing of this giant’s 
children, gave way to complete debilitation. 

Her health failed rapidly, and the little 
bunch of nerves, the happy child-bride, be- 
came a stranger amongst people. But her 
pretty little sayings were often repeated, and 
the lack of her presence, to make them com- 
plete in her peculiar way, always regretted. 

The physician had recommended change 
of air — higher altitude. 

Now, just about this time, a call had been 
made from the wonderful city at the foot 
hills of the Rockies, to the then famous 
preacher, to take charge of a select congre- 


Jo sip ha. 33 

gation of men and women, to whom he had 
been endeared through the broadness of his 
views. So, dear as the city on the river had 
been to the Draytons, the opportunity was 
one among thousands. The flattering offer 
was accepted at once. 

Acting on the advice of a physician, the 

little country town of L , only a few 

miles distant from D , was chosen as a 

residence, partly on account of purer air, 
partly on account of the quietness of the 
country. There by the limpid mountain 
stream, in the bracing air of the Rockies, 
feasted by the incomparable sight of the 
range and continental divide, the invalid s 
convalescence progressed slowly, until at 
last she seemed to have become once more, 
the same old darling wife, full of mischief 
and old-time spirit. 

Reports went back to the river town of 
the complete recovery, and, one day, they 
carried the news of the arrival of another 
little girl in the pastor's household. Shortly 
before this happened, a removal to one of 


34 Josipha. 

D ’s pretty sandstone houses had taken 

place. 

Then broke loose, however, the revolt of 
the frail woman’s nature against the unequal 
mating, and with it came the dreadful sick- 
ness. When, a few years after their removal 
from St. Joseph, my business called me to 

D , I found, of the once lovable girl, the 

described wreck of contortioned limbs, and 
a mind, clouded, crazed by morphine. No- 
body else but myself could possibly know 
how much my friend suffered, for there were 
no callers at the parsonage, or, at least, they 
were rare. There were servants, of course, 
but they never stayed long. It seemed im- 
possible to keep them on account of the irri- 
tability of the invalid, and a continual cliange 
must have been advisable, and even neces- 
sary, after each scene between man and wife. 

These scenes happened without any provo- 
cation, unless it was the manly health of the 
preacher, the jealousy of the woman, that 
she alone, and not he, had to suffer, that 
called them forth. 


Josdpha. 35 

Oh, these obscene, raving accusations! 1 
witnessed only one. On this occasion it was 
that my friend had wrung his hands in de- 
spair and exclaimed : 

“ I cannot bear this any longer.” 

With this short sentence, the ice has been 
broken, and there had followed a confidential 
account of his conjugal misery. Of the 
wife’s mad jealousy, which drove him away 
from home and made it a hell for him, so that 
he would steal back to his study, like a thief 
at a late hour, and for days live, eat and sleep 
there. Then after these days passed under 
the same roof, his presence unknown to the 
cripple, pity would drive him back to her 
rocking chair, to receive what? 

A thankful look^ a few apologizing words ? 
No, indeed ! But to listen to another storm 
of accusations, to more jealous questions, for, 
where had he been all this time ? 

And this show of jealous mistrust was 
not only confined to the house. Strapped to 
her buggy seat as described, she would lie 
in wait for her husband, who was a passion- 


36 


Josdpha. 

ate wheelman, or follow him on every step of 
his ministerial walk, remembering anxiously 
all the houses he entered, and making 
inquiries about those that lived in them. It 
must have been a great relief to Drayton 
when he discovered the old darkey woman 
Susan. She was an ideal servant for his 
household, neither concerned by the invalid’s 
excitability, nor apt to gossip. She had been 
there for years, a real mother of the two 
girls, to whom she was devotedly attached. 

Although this gifted man was drawing, at 
that time, one of the largest salaries paid a 
minister, the extravagance of his wife made 
it impossible to save any money at all. On 
the contrary, it was often a question with 
him, of how he would pay all the debts con- 
tracted by her. 

She would drive up to the various stores 
in town and order and buy on credit the 
most expensive, most unnecessary things. 
Her bills at the dressmakers and milliners 
were enormous; for in the same degree that 
her health vanished and her appearance 


Josdpha. 


37 


became older, in the same degree her vanity 
grew. She wanted to please, and to hide 
the ravages of disease. This desire, if not so 
pitiable, would have called forth any amount 
of mirth in me, had I not understood it to 
be a consequence of her sickness. In her 
healthy state she had been neither vain nor 
careless ! 

Yet, thin as the thread seemed that held 
her tied to earth, she lived on tenaciously, 
from year to year, although her death would 
have been a deliverance to herself and those 
around her. For her children she cared no 
more than a hen for her brood after they 
have reached a certain age. The sense of 
motherhood seemed entirely drowned under 
her unpleasant pas.sions. Or, was it a grudge 
for the amount of vitality that their birth 
had cost her, and which she had never been 
able to recover ? 

And so the father devoted much time to 
the two healthy girls. The hours spent by 
this trio in the study, field or on the plains, 
must have been the only happy ones in the 


38 


Jos^pha. 


man*s life. How patiently he studied the 
intuitions ol each, how anxiously he watched 
for the awakening of some talent or faculty, 
the bringing out, cultivation and perfection 
of which would assure them a possibility of 
self-support. 

There manifested itself soon in Elsa, the 
older girl, a pronounced admiration for 
music, a quick ear and a wonderfully deep 
conception for the sublime art. First on the 
piano, her little fingers at the tender age of 
six faithfully repaid the parental patience 
and teachings by unexpected revelations. 
Later on, her childish little soprano voice sur- 
prised him yet more by exact reproduction 
of bits gathered at her father’s church or 
elsewhere. This small, childish voice had 
been placed under the hands of a careful 
master, and its notes had won, through years 
of study, in sweetness and volume. Every 
note had been properly placed. Often one 
more^^obstinate than the others had been 
practised for weeks, until it had found its 
right location in the vocal register. 




39 


Jos^pha. 

At the age of twelve she had learned all 
her teacher could impart. She had sung 
before audiences and scored many a praise, 
and at last she had been trusted with solo 
parts in her father’s church choir. 

Imbued with the idea of self-support from 
childhood on, this premature girl quickly 
caught her father’s intentions. Her youth- 
ful mind had at once become awake to the 
commercial value of her voice, especially 
since the day she had been engaged at the 
church for a salary. Flattered by her master, 
and incited to greater study by promises of 
more brilliant results, her energy and assi- 
duity knew no bounds. 

Her career was mapped out in her mind. 
The attending studies had been taken up and 
mastered. 


40 


Josipha, 


III. 

There was assembled quite a gathering of 
mourners in the parlors of the parsonage 
after the 'funeral of Mrs. Drayton, whose 
death had followed shortly after the elope- 
ment of the parson. Naturally, the sudden 
decease of the woman after these events was 
looked upon as the sequel — the result of them. 
This, of course, added still more to the gen- 
eral indignation against the man, already 
aroused as it was by his flight and the deser- 
tion of his children. 

The world is ever ready to condemn, with- 
out remembering the proverb, that there are 
always two sides to one story. 

Some of these people had gone back from 
pity, and in order to lend a helping hand, 
others were driven back by mere curiosity 
and desire to peep into the private recesses 
of a house whose doors had been open so lit- 


Josipha, 41 

tie to the outside world, even as little to the 
members of the church. What struck every- 
body at once, on entering the rooms, was the 
staring bareness of the walls, and the total 
absence of everything dear to woman — those 
many trifles with which she is wont to sur-- 
round herself and to make our homes attract 
tive. 

Those little knick-knacks, tokens of love 
and friendship, which call back recollections 
of hours spent behind locked doors, when 
soft, white hands busy themselves over silks, 
linens, or the many new fads of our modern 
times; reminders of those dear days before 
the f^tes and the holidays, full of real or 
feigned curiosity, when we indulged in those 
delicious little teasings, hides and seeks, and 
guessings at what our 6trennes (gifts) would 
be. 

Yes, the walls were bare. If some curious 
ones have come, hoping to find new stuff for 
more gossip, by the discovery of some bit 
of needlework from the hands of Mrs. Co- 
bourne, whose name had been mentioned in 


4 ^ 


Jodspha. 


connection with the pastor, some little gifts, 
at the work of which they might have seen 
the fair widow busy at her apartments, or 
some tell-tale object, picture, bref — whatever 
it might be — they will be disappointed. 

Even the pastor’s study does not give up 
any such secrets. There again, as in all the 
other rooms, the lack of a woman’s presence 
is shown. 

Its most conspicuous piece of furniture is 
a bookcase, the books representing the pro- 
ductions from all the great minds of the 
world. They remind one of the learning of 
the man, and inspire one with an honest re- 
gret for the fall of so powerfully eloquent a 
preacher. 

Of the trials of his existence, the everlasting 
battle between reason and passion in the 
man’s life, there is an evidence on his desk, 
an ebony inkstand with these words of ad- 
monition, “ Ich muss konnen — ich will miis- 
sen,” and a translation of the great German 
philosopher’s work from whose pen these 
words have flown, lies near by, showing by its 


43 


Josdpha, 

much-handled pages, how hard this man had 
tried to subdue his passions under a strong 
will-power, but had failed, like so many of us 
do. 

There in the sitting-room stands the old 
rocking-chair, with strap and pillows, and the 
invalid's stick ; on the table a few medicine 
bottles and an open pasteboard box contain- 
ing pills of the dreadful drug. A lady took 
up the lid and read the inscription, but put it 
back shamefacedly, when the tall girl told 
her: Mamma suffered so much she never 
went without them." 

But since we have talked of those only that 
came out of curiosity, justice demands that 
we should also make known the intentions of 
those who had come to offer advice and to 
take care of the children’s future. 

The younger sister, Mary, had been adopted 
by a wealthy couple, as we stated before. 
Now there remained only a place to be found 
for the older girl, Elsa. 

A lady, dressed in deep mourning, was 
amongst those assembled in the parlor of the 
parsonage. 


44 


Josiphal 

She was the wife of a large mine owner, 
and had buried her only child, a girl as old 
as Elsa, only a few weeks ago. She owned 
a palatial home on the Hill, and she had come 
to offer Elsa a place there— not as companion 
but as the adopted daughter of the house. 

With her husband she had been to the par- 
sonage every day after the death of Mrs. 
Drayton, and had talked to the children. It 
had not been without much indecision and 
hesitation, that they finally made up their 
minds to adopt the older girl. 

They had much to give, wealth and all the 
promises of a bright future, but would the 
girl prove worthy — was there not perhaps 
some depravity hidden in her heart ? Would 
she show gratitude for the sacrifices made, or 
pay back ingratitude for kindness? 

Thus had they pondered, but not a word 
of their intention to Elsa. With others, how- 
ever, the matter had been talked over and 
over again, and it surely had cost both man 
and wife some sleepless nights. 

Even now the decisive moment had been 


Josdpha, 


45 


put off as long as it coiild be, it was time to 
act. Every eye was turned on.the girl, when 
at last these words came kindly from the 
lady’s lips : 

“ My dear Elsa, since your sister has found 
a place, it is time to think about you, my 
child.” 

She had pulled the tall form over to her 
and continued : 

“You were a schoolmate of my daughter, 
will you try to fill her place in my heart? 

Look to me as your mother and to Mr. S 

as your father? We will give you our name, 
provide for your future as though you were 
our own, and in return only ask your devo- 
tion and love.” 

There was a silence of speculation as what 
the answer would be to this question. 

Through the early matured mind of the 
girl, there flashed at once a true conception 
of the situation. 

This offer, well meant, perhaps, was more 
likely only made from a selfish motive — from 
a “ trying to forget ” the dead child by the 


46 


Josipha, 


presence of a girl of the same age at the same 
hearth. And involuntarily she called before 
her vision the picture of this departed dar- 
ling of rich surroundings, whom she was to 
replace, a girl spoiled and treated like a 
child. 

They had been classmates. 

Emily, tall and pretty, raised like a hot- 
house plant, with ever a care for her every 
want, a governess to accompany her wher- 
ever she went — enfin — a product of too much 
pampering. A girl without any originality, 
into whose little brain no thought had found 
entrance before it had not been thoroughly 
digested by a dear mother, father or some 
other relative. 

All this flashed through Elsa’s mind quick- 
er than it takes to say it. 

The parson’s daughter was brought up 
differently. The parental roof had always 
been a shelter for her, but the mother’s sick- 
ness instituted her rather as the manager of 
the household. She had soon lost all attri- 
butes of a child. 


47 


Josipha, 

Her education, or better, the lack of a 
ntother’s guiding hand, early developed in 
her a self-dependence, strange perhaps in so 
young a girl. 

Then her father had instilled into her mind 
the necessity of self-support, when the 
mother’s sickness and extravagance put every 
possibility of saving up for the children’s fu- 
ture out of question. It had not been done 
in so and so many words, such as: 

“You must try to make a living for your- 
self,” but by careful feeding of the growing 
mind with the readings of works and books 
which would necessarily awaken a longing 
for an active life and the desire to make a 
mark. 

It was a great offer, no doubt, this adop- 
tion, putting aside all cares for the future, 
finding at once a home and another pair of 
parents. 

But could she bring her mind back into 
the limits of narrowness expected from these 
people, if she was to be like their dead child. 
Should she give up her hopes and plans for 


48 Jo sip ha, 

the future, for the consummation of which all 
previous years had been spent in study? 

Yet, quick as the girl’s answer came, she 
seemed to be fully aware of its importance 
and its consequences. 

“ I thank you so much,” she -simply said, 
‘‘but I cannot accept your kind offer, not 
even at the peril of losing 3'our affection and 
sympathy. I could not be a child to you, 
such as you want me to be — such as dear 
Emily was. I would run away some da^^ in 
order to follow my inclinations of becoming 
a singer, and tlien 3^011 would think me un- 
grateful. Papa has raised me for a purpose, 
and since his departure and mama’s death,” 
this with a sob, “I have taken steps about 
my own future.” 

'j “The only thing I really worried over was 
my little sister. She has found a shelter. 
As to myself, I shall take up my music. 
Poor papa has always encouraged my studies. 
Poor papa, about whom they say such dread- 
ful things. I shall and will not stay here and 
listen to them. I am old enough to take up. 


Josdpka, 


49 


a vocation. I shall do so at once. Besides, 
my music teacher, Mr. Vanat, has already 
made the necessary arrangements for a con- 
cert, by which he expects to raise the money 
necessary for my musical education in Paris. 
1 shall become a singer.” 

The liush of silence which had followed 
the girl’s prompt reply, lasted like a spell for 
several seconds. When broken, everybody 
was talking at one and the same time. But 
the climax came with the question : 

“ For heaven’s sake, Elsa, you do not mean 
to become an opera singer?” and after Elsa’s 
spirited answer; 

“Yes, an opera singer, like Patti. My 
heart is set on that profession. I have been 
educated for it through years of study, and I 
know papa, who encouraged me, would not 
have done so had he considered it an unfit 
career for me to enter upon. Ah, why did 
papa leave us.” She commenced to sob and 
left the room. 

Still, nobody heeded the girl’s tears. Her 
independence jarred the assembly. This 


50 


Jo sip ha, 

continual reference to her father, only raised 
a storm of general indignation amongst the 
gathering. 

Inherited perversity. What else could be 
expected from a girl grown up under such 
unhealthy influences? What independence 
and opposition, when everybody was trying 
to do what was best ; perform a Samaritan 
deed, as it were. 

This girl’s mind was impregnated with 
vanity of the world and hunger for its glory. 
Whoever had eyes to see could see that 
much. Would it be accessible to other hum- 
ble thoughts, was it not already too late for 
a thorough cleaning? 

But who had ever seen a red-haired girl 
other than strong-headed, vicious and frivo- 
lous? 

Such were the remarks in which every- 
body indulged after Elsa had left the room. 
They were whispered at first, to feel the 
ground, spoken out aloud when the una- 
nimity of opinion became evident, and at last 
the whole vocabulary must have been ex^ 


JosSpha, 51 

hausted to find words enough for the gen- 
eral expression of indignation. 

It was already getting darker in the room 
when there was a ring at the door. 

To Elsa, the shrill little ting-a-ling brought 
deliverance and assistance. She had left the 
room crying, she entered it again, her eyes 
full of tears. But through these tears there 
shone now a light of mingled confidence 
and defiance. The white-haired man, in an 
old-fashioned, long Prince Albert coat, to 
whose hands she clung, was her music 
teacher, Mr. Vanat. 

A few words from him had sufficed to calm 
the girl, for they meant to her a world of 
things. 

The concert of which she had spoken had 
already been set for the near future. She 
would receive the assistance of all the most 
prominent musicians in town. 

Old Mr. Vanat was a well-known figure 
indeed, a veteran organist and the best 
teacher of vocal culture. He was no mean 
judge of talent, indeed his championship 


52 


Josipha, 

surely would never have been wasted merely 
to please a little girl of some thirteen years. 

That girl must needs possess an extraordi- 
nary gift to gain this man as counselor. 

He spoke of the greatness of his profession, 
of the girl’s talent, of the injustice to drown 
it under prejudices against the career. “ Was 
this the fin de siecle of an enlightened cen- 
tury ?” Could they name any profession, 
any vocation open to woman nowadays that 
did not offer the same temptations ?” 

After the self-imposed tutelage over 
Elsa by the reverenced old teacher, little re- 
mained to be done, and one after the other 
the ladies departed. 

Many little spiteful things were said, how- 
ever, amongst the different groups as they 
walked down the wooden sidewalk. 

“ God forbid that they would buy a ticket 
for the concert — contributing to the launch- 
ing of this girl into a career so full of thorns 
and temptations. Indeed they would not.” 

The mourning mother of Emily left the 
parsonage with a sigh of relief, as though 


Josipha. 53 

she had had a narrow escape from impend- 
ing disaster. 

Truly her eyes had been opened just in 
time, she might have spent years of love on 
this proud chip of a girl to find out some 
day that they would have been wasted on a 
venomous viper. 

So. everybody went away disgusted. 

Not only would they be conspicuous by 
their absence at the concert. No, they would 
keep their friends and relatives away as well, 
telling them what a perverse, spiteful girl 
this 3^oung singer was. Had they been de- 
feated in a well-meant attempt to put the girl 
on a straight road, they would do at least 
everything in their power to prevent a 
furtherance of her vain projects. 

In that manner they would feel that they 
had washed their hands clean of any respon- 
sibility in the girl’s future. For had not 
Madam B. a lover, had they not all 
lovers. And only a few days ago it had 
been published that Madam S. had be- 
come a patroness of the Monaco gambling 
halls. 


54 Josdpha. 

Dreadful. To think, too, that one would 
not listen, but run right into one’s own per- 
dition. 

Well-meaning but small-minded religious 
ladies, you little thought of the innate curios- 
ity of human flesh, and that when you said 
to your friends, “ You must not go,” they at 
once made up their minds to go. Since the 
days of Adam and Eve none passes but what 
the old parable of the forbidden fruit is acted 
over again. 

And so the night of the concert, in the 

beautiful city of D , you would have been 

surprised to behold with your own eyes, if 
you had been there, which I feel sure you 
were, the faces of all those friends and rela- 
tives which you had driven to the theatre by 
the little words, “ You must not go.” 

And this on a warm night long past the 
theatre season, when otherwise everybody 
would have been out to the summer gar- 
dens. 

Elsa entered upon her musical career with 


Josepha, 


55 


a decided sensation. In the first place the 
ladies had stirred up interest in the event by 
a regular canvassing of their acquaintances — 
not in favor of the girl — you may depend. 

In the second place, the press took up the 
question of Elsa’s future. One article, es- 
pecially, had come out with a detailed 
description of the life in the parsonage, with 
an announcement of the concert to be given 
for the purpose of raising money for the girl’s 
operatic education, and had referred to this 
intention of the girl becoming an actress as a 
case fit to be looked into by the humane 
society. The concert, following as it did 
so shortly after her mother’s death, was much 
commented upon for that reason also. 

That memorable night in Elsa’s life, many 
an opera-glass was leveled at the girlish 
figure in black, with a white rose as the only 
ornament. Her hair, her eyes, her nose, were 
dissected thoroughly by scrutinizing looks. 

However, the girl showed no nervousness; 
she had faced an audience every Sunday in 
her father’s church, and her whole being was 


g6 Josiph(X. 

saturated with that enthusiasm which makes 
people in public forget their surroundings. 

When she drew forward to the footlights 
her glances swept the audience. But while 
many of those faces turned up toward her 
were faces of old friends, she saw them not; 
she only felt a sensation of perfect abandon- 
ment into her art. 

And when the full orchestra had played 
the few bars of prelude to Gounod’s “ Ave 
Maria,” her voice fell in at the right time, and 
on the full notes her soul went out into the 
fervent cry for grace, forgiveness, mercy. 

The cry of a sinner conscious of his sin, 
writhing in the dust before the virgin, 
whose only redemption seemed to depend 
on the fervor of the heartrending cry: 

“ Ave Maria, ora pro nobis.” 

And with the storm of applause that broke 
loose over the house, there came the awaken- 
ing to Elsa. There came the recognition of 
all the known faces in the audience with their 
eyes speaking a mute: “Thou hast done 
well.” 


57 


Josdpha, 

There came to her the sweetness of admir- 
ation, the satisfaction of the power of the 
human voice which had kept the now fan- 
ning, murmuring ocean of human counte- 
nances spellbound. 

She looked down again, she looked to her 
master, and with that quick intuition that 
helped her along in later years, and caused 
her to make capital of every opportunity, she 
appeared before the curtain by the hand of 
her beloved teacher. 

There were no words necessary to inter- 
pret this action. It meant that she owed 
this man everything. 

The concert was a success, both artistically 
and financially. 


58 


Josdpha. 


IV. 

You read the papers. Have you ever no- 
ticed amongst the foreign news, the howl of 
the French press, whenever a foreign artist 
is being admitted to the Opera Frangaise. 

Patriotism is—well, in art there should be 
no limitation to nationality, for art itself is 
cosmopolitan. 

-Nor was it spared to our courageous 
young girl to experience the difficulty of rec- 
ognition of her wonderful talent in this 
strange land of France, where she had been 
for years, 

Still, when we meet her again in her age of 
budding womanhood, she has already van- 
quished all the obstacles every beginning in- 
cludes. 

Hers was a lucky star indeed. 

Her voice culture, perfected in the school 
of Madam Rossi-Garcia, the most famous 


Josdpha, 59 

vocal teacher of those days, she had come 
under the notice of Signor Louis Chiolero, 
the world-renowned composer of the opera 
Med 6 a” which he had only then written. 

We have said nothing about our heroine’s 
appearance except referring to her red hair, 
which had been looked upon by the ladies at 
the parsonage as a sure sign of frivolity and 
perversity, in a former chapter. 

This red hair was the same indeed as in 
those days. 

But while it had been then the cause of so 
many unkind comments, in Paris it was 
raved about, creating a regular famine in 
red switches and red dyes. So wonderful it 
was, so like a stream of gold in its rippling 
mass. 

Her figure tall and willowy, had rounded 
somewhat, yet not enough to lose any of its 
feline grace in the superb carriage of the 
body. 

And thus she was indeed a woman made to 
represent a princess, such as that in the story 
of the “Golden Fleece,” a woman such as 


6o 


JosSpha. 


might play well the part of a sorceress, an 
enchantress, like the daughter of Aetes had 
been, in her youthful unearthly beauty. 

She was indeed the Med^a, the youthful 
singer lacking for the representation of 
Chiolero’s masterpiece. 

And so a glimpse of Elsa, but above all her 
well-formed, mellow notes had been enough 
to convince the great composer that he had 
found at last the ideal for which so long he 
had been seeking in vain. 

When, after many struggles and only by 
sheer tenacity of the composer, who threat- 
ened to take his opera to Berlin, the objec- 
tion of the press, that a French singer should 
alone be trusted with the creation of this new 
role had been overcome, our Elsa emerged 
from the boards of the famous old opera 
house, this goal of every aspiring singer, 
under the name of “ Jos^pha.” 

For in those days, although already 
thoroughly French, she still thought of her 
American childhood at times, and in memory 
of her native place, St. Joseph, on the dis- 
tant river, had taken the name of “ Josepha.” 


Josipha, 6 1 

Since her d^but, which had been heralded 
all over the world, so extraordinary by its 
being at the same time a creation of a new 
r61e, a perfect revelation of a phenomenal 
talent, both of acting and singing, and since 
the rising of her wonderful star, thoughts 
had not wandered back as much any more to 
old acquaintances and the days of childhood. 
Even the little sister had been forgotten, and 
the old teacher at D . 

And so, when we meet her again, years 
after her d6but, she is a very busy woman. 

Her greatest passion her art, and the daily 
studies to keep it perfect still occupy most 
of her time. 

Everybody knows the story which has 
gone the rounds of all the caf6s, brasseries, 
salons, and newspapers of Paris. The story 
about Jos^pha’s rehearsing her famous “ robe 
de r^p^tition,’'as she calls it. A loose Turk- 
ish garment cut much like a bath robe, tied 
with a cord around the neck and waist. A 
long, trailing, square-cut toga, draping and 
hiding her superb figure, dressed in a tricot 


62 


Josdpha, 


from head to foot. For she claims it gives 
her more freedom to expand her chest, and 
her whole body a better display of suppleness 
when she rehearses in her music-room, an 
octagon affair, with a cupola and looking 
glasses, reflecting each movement. 

And her duenna, who is also the accom- 
panist, maintains that in this dress and in this 
room Jos6pha acts better, sings better even, 
than at the opera on the stage. 

To be admitted into the privacy of these 
rehearsals and this room is therefore consid- 
ered by her friends a token of extraordinary 
favor. Still after all, this famous robe de 
r^p^tition,” may be only ce quel que chose 
d’ original, which, it seems, every great singer 
must needs possess. And it sounds well in- 
deed when propounding her method of sing- 
ing to an interviewing reporter, the lady can 
say, “ I believe in so and so,” in our case for 
instance, or Jos^pha’s, “ I believe in the per- 
fect freedom from any restraint of the body, 
a singing in perfect nudity if possible. For 
it gives one a chance to study the correct. 


Josepha, 


63 


employment of every muscle in one’s body 
and the healthy breathing of one’s chest. 
My music-room is therefore always heated, 
summer or winter. So that if 1 desire to do 
so, I could undress completely without run- 
ning the risk of catching a cold.” 

This, for her hours spent in study. 

The other hours are occupied by frivolities 
of the times, typical appurtenances of a 
public life like hers, the life of a famous 
singer, and a very beautiful woman. 

Paris has forgiven her her foreign birth 
since she has started in by faithfully spend- 
ing every sou of her immense salary amongst 
its tradesmen. 

When we meet her again, she has only 
just returned from spending the summer in 
the Alps, and a part of the season at Trou- 
ville. She is still tired from her trip, or the 
change of air, and is quietly resting on a soft 
divan in that same robe de r^p6tition we 
before described. 

In her hands she held a morning paper. 

Back in Paris, her beloved Paris, only a 


64 


Josipha, 

few days, her presence was already known 
from the fact of her popularity. A famous 
singer necessarily becomes the object of obser- 
vation to the ever watcliful eye of every lover 
of music. But wlien combined with lier talent 
she possesses beauty and youth, and spends 
money as freely, as lavishly, as Jos^pha did ; 
her person gains the interest of those even 
whom her art would not have reached. 

But dear as the ever public attention had 
been to her, sweet as this interest tasted at 
first, in later years so continued a notice 
and watchfulness of her every action had 
grown annoying. 

She had searched the papers at the begin- 
ning of her bright career with avidity daily 
for notices given to herself — for criticisms of 
her performances, but this feeling had 
changed considerably as time went on. 

She overlooked entirely the extollings of 
the press once so tickling and inciting, nay, 
she would have beensurprised even had they 
not been in the columns of the dailies, so 
much did she expect them. 


Josdpha, 65 

Now Jos^pha was no more a girl. She 
had become a woman. 

Feted by a little court of her own, sur- 
rounded by flatter}^ coming in daily contact 
with stage intimacy — could she still be the 
girl we left in D , some years ago? 

Thus when she took up the journal in the 
morning, it was not from a desire to read the 
stale repetitions of praises. It was from curi- 
osity to find out how much of her private 
life the press really knew, or had gained a 
knowledge of that day. 

For so many spicy little things had already 
been said about her. 

Since she had become famous, the trials of 
her childhood ; the struggles of overcoming 
prejudices against her profession, and even 
an account of how she had raised herself ; 
obtained the money necessary for her edu- 
cation, had been published. No doubt this, 
her biography, was being eagerly absorbed 
by every aspiring student of music, with 
dreams of a like future. 

The papers were delving more into her 


66 


Josdpha, 

private life, into her life of later years. She 
had been jarred at first by some of these 
little exaggerated reports; then laughed at 
them. At last she even looked upon them 
with favor, as an expedient for more popu- 
larity. 

As long as they were not true what did it 
matter ? Her conscience could sleep in peace. 

Thus in everything she had run through 
the various degrees of comparison. She had 
been frivolous, she grew more frivolous; 
she even reached the superlative, our most 
frivolous singer. 

For all had changed. 

The little weaknesses attributed to her, so 
wrongly at first, had really become in years 
a part of her. 

And yet, she even grew used to the public 
attention to these when her conscience had 
long ceased to worry her. So much are we 
all the creatures of habit. 

And more than ever before in all her life, 
in the few days following her return, had 
she been anxiously watching the papers for 


Josdpha, 67 

a new sensation about herself — had she pon- 
dered and fretted over the question 

“ How much of her private life did the 
press really know ?” 

But even before she had begun her search, 
even before she could reach the familiar daily 
column of stage gossip, page five, the servant 
presented to her on a silver plate a card, and 
on an approving nod of her magnificent head, 
ushered in the caller. 

That he was one of the privileged friends 
of the house, we need not say, since Jos^pha 
made no ceremony of receiving him, dressed 
as she was. 

‘‘ Ah, Paris is indeed Paris again,'’ this early 
intruder exclaimed, approaching and heartily 
shaking hands with the singer. 

He was a young fellow of about twenty 
five, one of those sturdy American boys, as 
the athletic sports of Yale and Harvard uni- 
versities turn them out at the parting roads 
of youth and manhood. 

Why he had come to Paris nobody knew. 

He was seen around some of the studios at 


68 


Josipha. 

times with palette and brush, more often, 
however, at the track and the games, so that 
the “ why " of his presence in the gay capital 
was really a serious problem of guessings. 

Nor could he have come for recreation 
from assidious studies. He decidedly did 
not look as if in need of recreation, and of 
studies nobody would have thought him 
capable, had he not had his diploma of Yale 
to show for these. 

That he was enjoying life, however, and 
having good times all around, nobody dis- 
puted. 

“You flatterer,” the woman replied, “as 
though Paris was not just as much Paris to 
you, even without Jos^pha. Besides you 
must remember that, vast as this city may 
be, Billy Grant is not at all une personne 
inconnue (an unknown person), that I have 
been here three days, which I trust you do 
not imagine for one minute have been spent 
inside of my four walls only. You must 
remember too, that I have called on Laviere. 
Ah, I see you falter now. A confession, sir, 


69 


Jo sip ha, 

a confession, I say. Why the rupture 
between you two when I thought that you 
would ever be inseparable. Why this breach 
which the poor thing takes so much to 
heart ?’' 

But, while a smile of annoyance and amuse- 
ment had flitted over his face, he parried the 
thrust sarcastically. 

Ah, you are very clever indeed, Jos^pha, 
to turn the conversation on my most humble 
person. Laviere? indeed, you never took so 
marked an interest in my little love affairs 
before. But tell me frankly, are you not 
rather trying to avert attention from your 
much more charming own personality ? It 
seems to me there is a gleam of guilt in your 
so beautiful eyes, some trouble hidden 
behind that thoughtful brow. Will you not 
confide in me, will you not have me bear the 
burden of your many little secrets? or is it 
something new, is there any truth in this 
entanglement between you and the Due de 
Montpierre of which the papers have been 
full so long. Are you in love, indeed ? 
Come and tell me all.” 


70 


Josdpha, 


And since the papers have informed you 
of this famous case, have they not also given 
you all the details and more than I could 
impart? Why then repeat a string of 
annoying events, for no evident purpose, 
\ when there remains so much for me to learn 
I from you ; if you do not wish to talk about 
yourself, at least about Paris, about our 
mutual friends.” 

But if it were not from curiosity alone, 
if it were for some evident purpose, and on 
behalf of one of our mutual friends, to use 
your own words, that 1 had come to sound 
your heart, Jos^pha. If it were on behalf 
of a man who loves you as no other man will 
ever love you, if it were on behalf of this one 
man, whom you have driven away from you, 
whom you loved yourself. Oh, you cannot 
deny it, this one is back once more in Paris 
and I am his emissary, to plead his pardon, 
his admission before you.” 

The young man talking thus had become 
quite serious, as though pleading his own case, 
not another’s, but Jos^pha’s face was livid 
with emotion. 


71 


Josdpha, 

“Clarence Willard back. in Paris?” She 
recovered herself sufficiently at last to stam- 
mer, for there had chased through her brain, 
even while Billy Grant was talking, a train of 
thoughts. Of memories of only a few months 
ago, when her heart had felt the touch of 
love, when she had known the delights of this 
wonderful human blessedness, then of unal- 
terable events which had happened since, so 
sad, so miserable. Oh ! 

She had met him through this same man 
who was standing before her, this William 
Grant — Billy Grant — for they were fast 
friends. Two entirely different characters? 
attracted to each other by this their very 
diversity. William Grant, the son of wealth, 
a member of New York’s aristocratic society, 
through inherited rights. 

Clarence Willard a member of the same 
set, a parvenue (upstart), admitted into its 
sumptuous halls for his enormous wealth, a 
fortune all accumulated by himself, a self- 
made man at thirty. 

He was one of those men that take life 


72 


Jos^pha. 

hard, that look on the joys and pleasures of 
existence even, through dark glasses, seeing 
the fatal blotch on everything. 

Of these views his education had of course, 
been the mother. It was that of a poor 
Southern lad. He was a widow’s only son, 
early called upon to support his mother. 

His father had become a partner in a whole- 
sale grocery firm on the Bay of Charleston 
before the war. Compelled to enter active 
service under the Confederacy, and little 
used to the poisonous miasma of southern 
swamps, he had died shortly after the declar- 
ation of peace, from a fever contracted during 
the campaign. 

Had he been admitted penniless for his 
commercial ability alone into the partnership 
of this firm, which had grown rich from lucky 
■ blockade runs during the strife, he was 3'et a 
partner and entitled to his share of the profits. 

But how painful must have been the sur- 
prise, when on the day of his death the pal- 
try sum of a few hundred dollars, hardly 
covering the funeral expenses, was handed to 


Josdpha, 73 

the widow, with the information that this was 
all the money due her husband. 

In his over-confidence he had kept all his 
private papers in a tin box in the firm’s office 
vault, even those pertaining to his partner- 
’ ship agreement. This box was found open, 
the proofs were gone. The claims of iniquity 
and crooked dealings brought forth by the 
widow could never be demonstrated suffi- 
ciently to cause a settlement. 

The boy, ten years old at his father’s death, 
on whose support his widowed mother thus 
depended entirely, for it was difficult for a 
white woman in those days to find employ- 
ment in the South, acquitted himself of his 
task with a prompt aptitude for making money, 
as clerk at first, and later as the owner of one 
of those little corner grocery stores of the 
South, where they sell salt meats and putrid 
hams to the negroes, and in connection with 
which there generally goes a screen side- 
door, with the inscription “ bar-room.” 

Thus were his surroundings not of the best. 
Still he acquired no vices. He looked at life 


74 


Josdpha, 


from a woman’s standpoint — from his mother’s. 
She was a very religious woman, who suffered 
severely under the change of conditions, 
moving from a piazzaed white frame building, 
surrounded by a beautiful garden from the 
corner of Thomas and Van der Horst Streets 
into the dingy rooms over the store with its 
noise and the humming swarm of flies around 
the empty beer kegs in front under the mag- 
nolia trees. The boy knew no associates but 
his mother and books, and he pursued his 
studies earnestly. 

When his mother died he was only eighteen 
years old. And released of all other respon- 
sibilities but that of looking after and provid- 
ing for himself, he sold out his store and 
went to New York like so many of the south- 
ern boys do who are not altogether contented 
with the similarity and slowness of southern 
life. 

When he reached New York he had in his 
possession a few thousand dollars, all made 
by himself, and a great deal of self-confi- 
dence. 


JosSpha, 


75 


Indeed his business eye soon discovered 
opportunities for investment of this capital 
to good advantage. His immense fortune, 
however, had been made by lucky specula- 
tions in the oil fields of Pennsylvania, where 
all his interests were still centered at the 
time of our story. 

Grown up as he had, under business sur- 
roundings, and one woman’s care, he was 
timid in the presence of the weaker sex. 
Thus conscious of his timidity he sought to 
hide it behind a cold appearance which looked 
like pride. 

Proud, however, he was not, but prudish 
and reserved ; awkward, never finding the 
right word to say at the right time when 
before a woman ; and mostly indulging in an 
imaginary conversation with an imaginary 
fair one, all to himself, of what he might or 
should have said, after he was alone again. 
Then he was never really of that frank nature, 
void of bashfulness, which pleases women so 
much. 

With men, again, he was all business. A 


76 Josdpha, 

person difficult to become acquainted with. 
And it was only possible for such as Billy 
Grant, who had not been deceived by his 
outward coldness, and who had broken the 
crust surrounding- his whole-souled nature, to 
gain a glimpse of it, gain his friendship. 

To this friendship it was due that Clarence 
had lost at least some of his old time reserve, 
that he had become a member of a swell club 
equal to his station of wealth. 

Besides, Grant’s mother, a lady of most 
keen understanding, a thorough reader of 
human nature, having taken a particular 
fancy for her son’s friend, had drawn him lit- 
tle by little into her private circle. 

Still at the age of thirt}^, his views of 
women were infinitely better than his friend’s, 
five years his junior. 

In his wealth, he could not quite overcome 
the parsimony of his boyhood. His new life 
of course had swelled considerably the 
amount of his expenses, but only in a direc- 
tion unknown to his simple tastes before. 

His ordinary personal wants remained the 


Josdpha, 


77 


same in wealth as they had been in his life of 
toil. He still wore a cheap suit of jean under- 
wear, which indeed had seemed quite a 
luxury in comparison to his mother’s own 
manufacture from clean-washed ham and flour 
bags. 

Withal he was a fine-looking fellow, neat 
in appearance, recherche even, but never 
flashy. 

It was further due to Grant’s earnest solici- 
tation that his friend had torn himself loose 
from his office and had taken the trip to 
Paris. Could Billy have foreseen the conse- 
quences of this journey he would not have 
urged it so much. 

But how in the world was he to know the 
hidden fire in his friend’s breast, which 
needed only the fanning of passion to break 
into an all-absorbing conflagration. 

And so the two friends had begun by 
“taking in ” the city, as the saying is— the 
varied curiosities of Paris. The descendance 
of Willard from French parents, their name 
originally had been “ Guilleard,” and his per- 


yg Josipha. 

feet knowledge of the language made him 
feel at home at once in the gay city. He 
even recognized many of the traits of his 
dead parents in the French bourgeoisie, to 
whose houses they were often admitted 
through some studio associate of William 
Grant’s. 

He began to understand his own nature 
better by the life amongst the French people. 
His very habits and thoughts, his very 
economy, inheritances of his foreign parent- 
age, all. 

When the opera season began, our two 
friends had often occupied stalls amongst the 
gayly dressed crowd. On one of these oc- 
casions Clarence surprised his friend by ex- 
pressing the wish to meet Jos^pha. This was 
something so out of the ordinary course of 
Clarence’s former life that Billy had not 
trusted his ears at first. 

However, as he was a regular visitor at the 
singer’s, the fuifillment of this wish had been 
easily within his reach. 

So one day they found themselves with 
Jos^pfia in her luxurious little boudoir. 


Josdpha. 


79 


And after that events had followed one 
another, the one following always more sur- 
prising than the preceding one. Willard 
became a different man. 

He talked more, he laughed more, he 
seemed to have awakened from a long spell 
of lethargy and found that life possessed, after 
all, something else worth living for than busi- 
ness and money-making. 

Those days of surprises I 
At last, even Grant could not keep pace 
with his once so quiet friend. This feverish 
come and go ” from one pleasure to an- 
other, as though every minute counted, as 
though the long years of toil and deprivation 
must be forgotten in as many days, nay hours, 
of delicious excitement. There were parties, 
theatres, balls; always something, this or 
that, and never without Jos^pha. 

But into the eyes of the man and woman 
there had come a new light ; the reflection of 
budding love in their hearts. 

Frivolous Jos^pha and the quiet fellow of 

thirty. Whoever would have thought of 
that? 


8o 


Josipha, 

And it had become a life dear to both, 
every new day bringing with it some new 
emotion, strange, but sweet! 

Then the man’s lips had spoken of his love, 
his hopes, his home in New York, the future 
— all that. 

And Jos6pha had given a little start as if ^ 
pained. She knew the trouble had come. 

Farewell, dear days of mute understand- 
ing, when words have not been pressed into 
service to betray aloud a secret which our 
eyes speak, the touch of our hands reveals. 

Yet Josepha had answered to his pleadings 
neither yes nor no. She had started only as 
if aroused from some pleasant dream, then 
clung closer to his neck. 

With the possession of woman’s love, man 
begins to become her tyrant. 

Still were there then, at that time, no ques- 
tions asked about the past. Not on the ’ 
man’s part, for he was drunk with tender- 
ness; nor on the woman’s, either. Oh, no — 
not on her part, indeed. William Grant, 
when informed and taken into confidence by 


Josipha, 3 1 

his friend, had only confined himself to the 
few words : 

It is an unsuitable match,” nothing more. 

But after the intoxication of Clarence’s 
first love had evaporated somewhat, its other 
little attributes began to put in their appear- 
ance — jealousy for one. 

First of her art, to whom he thought she 
was attached in a much greater measure than 
necessary. It made him shiver, for she 
talked about it to him in the most glowing 
terms, as ^ of some ardent lover ; how she 
would never be able to live without it. 
Never. 

Then there were the many admirers that 
crowded around her day after day, each one 
receiving a word, a smile, seeming so pleas- 
ant coming as it did, from her he loved. 
Her, he felt, everybody else must needs be 
in love with. 

But what offended more than all the rest, 
his delicate feeling of propriety, was the ap- 
parent intimacy existing between Jos^pha 
and some of these friends. At last the dread- 


82 


Josipha, 

ful whispers and insinuations, slurs about her 
past, which he tried to leave unnoticed. 

In vain he endeavored to persuade him- 
self of the innocence of her free and easy 
manners, due to her life on the stage and be- 
hind the scenes. He only succeeded to for- 
get them long enough when alone with her 
under her fascination. 

Finally from a natural desire to know more 
about the one he hoped to wed, he had be- 
gun by asking questions. These, Jos^pha 
would answer with that frankness and light- 
heartedness so characteristic of her. 

She would say for instance, when asked 
how and why she had been retained at the 
Op^ra Frangaise, since there had been so much 
opposition before to her entering there, even 
after Chiolero had positively refused to play 
his “Medea ” with anybody else but her in the 
title role. 

“ J’avais gagn6 la bienveillance de Monsieur 
I intendant” (I had gained the good will of the 
manager) and add with a significant little 
gesture, 


83 


Josipha, 

“ Cela se fait comme ga dans notre monde ” 
(things are done in this manner in the the- 
atrical world), which would arouse his suspi- 
cion so much that his questions would be put 
more pointedly. For precisely about this 
same affair little hints had been dropped at 
night, when they were talking about all sorts 
of scandal, like men will do over their wine 
and cigarettes. 

But Josepha would answer all these ques- 
tions quite unconcernedly. She would throw 
her white arms around his neck, stroke his 
black mustache, parting it to imprint a de- 
licious kiss on his lips — and render him so 
wondrously happy that he would at once 
become again intoxicated with her love. 

Or, she would hide her face on his breast 
so that he could neither watch nor see the ex- 
pression of it, but only feel the light tickling 
touch of a few stray curls under his chin, and 
the perfume of her hair in his nostrils. 

Or, she would simply answer him by a 
long French Clarence, Clarence,” his 
name, in which she would put at once all the 
meaning of reproof, pleading and love. 


84 j os dp ha. 

About the future he only spoke — Jos6pha. 
never. 

So had weeks and months fled by, Clar- 
ence Willard’s sojourn in Paris already being 
extended more than once. He dined, he 
drove with Jos^pha — he all but slept at her 
home. After the theatre he , would wait for 
her behind the scenes, ride home with her in 
her carriage, tenderly watching that her 
opera cloak was well up around her neck, 
and sit down with her all alone to a light 
supper, which was always served after the 
performance, whenever she had to appear. 

Then, after supper, again, she would light 
a cigarette in her own mouth and hand it to 
him, while she herself would crouch down 
in her silks and satins on the carpet between 
his legs, leaning her head against his knees 
and looking up to him much like a faithful 
dog up to his master. 

So sweet, so smooth, had been their rela- 
tions, even with his fits of jealousy, which 
would give cause to occasional pouts, to be 


josipha, S5 

followed, however, instantly by an indescrib- 
ably charming making up.” 

After that a feeling of how much they 
really belonged together. 

But the hour of decision had come at last 
with the necessity of Clarence Willard’s de- 
parture to New York, which was to take 
place in the very near future. It was in the 
early hours of the evening when Jos^pha re- 
turned from the five o’clock tea at Mile. 
Lavi^re, the beautiful opera singer so rightly 
admired for her most wonderfully rich con- 
tralto voice. 

She was dressed in a gown of red Persian 
silk, the creation of Mr. Valois, an obscure 
ladies’ tailor before he had the good fortune 
of receiving the commission for this gown, 
which had really brought him into public 
notice, and which possessed besides quite an 
interesting history. 

Mr. Guilleaume, the world-renowned dress- 
maker of Paris, whose customers are thou- 
sands and amongst all nationalities, had flatly - 
refused to destroy his reputation as a man of 


86 


Josipha. 


good taste by dressing the singer in a color 
he claimed not becoming. A rupture 
between merchant and patron followed, and 
Josepha had taken her silks, a present of the 
Shah of Persia and indeed very valuable, to 
Mr. Valois, who with his rising from obscur- 
ity exploded at the same time the popular 
idea that red cannot be worn by women with 
red hair. 

Dressed in this gown, her cheeks still 
flushed from the animated conversation, she 
was just pulling off her long black gloves 
when Clarence entered unexpected, for 
Jos6pha had laughingly informed him of 
Lavi^re's tea the day before, 

“Je te donne ton cong6, mon cher. Va 
t’ amuser avec les autres, mais souviens — toi 
bien de me revenir apres demain.” (I give 
you a vacation dear. Go and amuse your- 
self with the others, but remember well that 
you must come back to me the day after to- 
morrow). 

She therefore understood at once that 
something of more than ordinary importance 


87 


JosipJia, 

had brought him there at this time. Her 
heart began to flutter. When he took her 
head between his two hands, kissing her 
fervently, she could see in his eyes the soft- 
ening moisture of a tear — a searching, loving 
look, full of talking tenderness. Then he had 
pulled her down well close to him, his arms 
still around her shapely figure. And the 
excess of tenderness in speech and looks had 
even surprised her by its intensity. And so 
they had sat awhile imbibing well the ex- 
quisiteness of those moments. Then he had 
spoken, of the necessity of his return to 
America, where his presence was needed. 
Again of his dreams of the future, when he 
hoped her presence would grace his home as 
mistress and wife. 

Would she give up her musical career 
and follow him into a life of less excitement 
but more true happiness? A life in which 
her every wish should be respected as the 
supreme will of his existence. He would 
change his mode of living, go more amongst 
people, so that she might not feel too isolated 


88 


Josdpha, 

after the publicity of her career, when step- 
ping down from the boards of the stage to 
the quiet fireside of their love. 

“Oh, he would do everything to please her, 
even wait until the coming spring wlien her 
present contract with the opera would be 
fulfilled. He would return then to claim her 
his.” 

But Josepha, to whom the impending sep- 
aration had come unprepared, had stared 
before her like one in a trance. Of this one 
thing she only thought : her lover was going 
away. Then came a vision of her former 
life. 

And when this man, to whom her heart’s 
love had gone out, spoke of marriage, what 
would she not have given, could she have 
said “yes,” from the depth of a pure white 
soul. 

Alas, she could not. She was too honest 
a girl to utter the little word, and she loved 
too well to deceive. Instead, she put on a 
blank expression as though she -had not 
caught his meaning, and she made an excuse 


Josipha, 89 

that he must go now, that she would give 
him an answer to-morrow. 

When she had left him there alone, at a loss 
of what to think of all this, at a loss about 
her sudden paleness, and especially the long, 
mute embrace and kiss, as though it was to 
be the last one, indeed — the curtain had 
dropped over the happiest moments of her 
eventful life. 

The next day, early in the morning, a letter 
was brought to Clarence by special messen- 
ger, a letter written in French, in a stiff, mas- 
culine handwriting. 

Monsieur : — La femme dont vous etes am- 
oureux n’est point digne de votre amour. 

Si vous vouliez bien prendre la peine, de 
vous informer siir son affaire avec Monsieur 
I’intendant de I’Opera Frangaise aupres de 
Mine. Trebini, la celbbre cantatrice que 
vous connaissez, vous trouveriez verifi^ ce 
dont vous fait part quelqu’un qui desire votre 
bien ^tre. 


90 


Josdpha, 


(Dear Sir: — The woman whom you have 
fallen in love with is unworthy of your love. 
If you would take the trouble of making* in- 
quiries about her affair with the manager of 
the French opera, at the house of Mme. Tre- 
bini, the famous singer, whom you know, you 
would find verified that of which some one 
advises you who wishes you well.) 

His suspicion aroused again by this refer- 
ence to the same affair of which Josepha had 
said so unconcernedly : 

“ Javaisgagne la bienveillance de Monsieur 
I’int^ndant.” 

(I had gained the good will of the manager 
of the opera.) 

"‘But how — how — how? ah,” he entered 
his friend’s room, letter in hand, waking him 
up most unceremoniously with a short “ read 
this.” 

Instead of an exclamation of surprise, how- 
ever, which he had expected, between a long 
lazy yawn, there came only these words : 

“I told you before the match was unsuit- 
able.” 


Josepha. 9 1 

But he had listened so long to these and 
similar insinuations that he wondered now 
why he had not tried long before to ascer- 
tain what truth there was in these cruel “ I 
told you.’’ 

Who was this Mme. Trebini ? Ah, he 
knew her well. A rival singer of Jos^pha’s, 
whom he had met at Jos^pha’s on various 
occasions. A jealous rival, indeed, embit- 
tered by the brilliancy of the American, sup- 
planted by the same in the affections of Pari- 
sian opera-goers. On outwardly friendly 
terms with her rival, only because both being 
colleagues of the same institution, relations 
of that nature were more convenient. 

Without any further hesitation he entered 
a cab, paying no attention to the earliness of 
the hour. Thirty minutes later he found 
himself seated before Trebini, a woman in- 
clined to stoutness, dressed in a soft robe de 
chambre, munching her morning roll and 
sipping her chocolate, while apparently 
pleased with this call from one of the rival 
camp. 


92 


Josipha, 

Indeed, Clarence had not been wanting for 
an explanation at once reasonable and flatter- 
ing for his unusually early call. 

“ He was going away and had not been 
able to resist the temptation of saying good- 
by to her.” 

Gradually the conversation had drifted 
into the hostile quarters. And he had lis- 
tened to the answer to his question. 

“ Qu’est-ce que c’^tait done cette affaire 
entre Jos6pha et Monsieur I’intendant ” 
(What is this affair between Jos^pha and the 
manager of the opera) to her smiling. 

“ Que c’^tait une affaire tr^s delicate ” 
(That is a very delicate affair), with his brain 
on fire. 

“ Qu’elle n’aimait pas parler de ces choses- 
la pareeque Ton pouvait la penser jalouse de 
Jos^pha ” (That she disliked to talk about 
those things because one might think her 
jealous of Jos6pha). 

But presently she had told him the whole 
episode between a young girl and a lecher- 
ous old man — I’affaire entre Josepha et Mon- 


Jo sip ha. 93 

sieur rintendaiit d e I’Op^ra Frangaise. Then 
he had excused himself. 

‘‘Qu’il se sentait malade/’ and he had felt 
sick, sick at heart as well as body. 

On his way home he had met his friend 
Tombet, whom he took into his confidence. 
But here again he was to be jarred by the 
meaning words: 

And you did not know that?’' 

Thus it had come to look to him as though 
all Paris was grinning at him with this: 
“ And you did not know that ?” 

He grew sick of the place, sick of every- 
thing, and once more reverted into the same 
old Clarence Willard — Mr. Clarence Willard 
of Wall Street, New York, a quiet, sombre 
man of thirty, with a pessimistic, hopeless 
look in his eyes. 


94 


Josipha* 


V. 

“ Clarence Willard back in Paris?” 

‘‘Back as you say, and I his emissary to 
sound your heart, to ask your pardon for 
him.” 

“ A strange way of asking for pardon and 
a confession at the same time.” 

“ Can you not understand, Jos^pha, I do 
not ask for a confession. I only wish to 
sound your heart. This Due de Montpierre, 
supposing he had offered you marriage, sup- 
posing you loved him, if such were the case, 
you must conceive how cruel it would be to 
let Clarence come back once more before 
you. Times have changed. The duke’s 
family exiled, with no prospects of ever 
mounting the throne of France again, why 
should he not follow his own inclination, 
since he has not to consult the wishes of a 


JosdpJia. 92 

nation. Why should the Due de Montpierre 
not marry Jos^pha the singer?” 

The singer sat still quite a while after 
Billy had ceased talking, staring before her 
in a most vague fashion. She was laboring 
under a severe struggle between affection 
and reason. When she rose it was simply to 
step to her open desk and to pen these lines : 

“ My Dearest Clarence You do not 
owe me an apology, nor do you need my 
pardon, for I have never thought of you but 
with a feeling of tenderness and love. 

However, if you must return to me once 
more, let it be, I pray, on your part with a 
mind ready to forgive, to make allowances 
for my many faults, the consequences of my 
public life. Thus alone, and thus only can 
we ever be happy together.” 

Which she put into a sealed envelope 
handing it to William Grant, who thereupon 
departed. 

But no sooner had he gone than there 


96 Johpha, 

dawned upon Jos^pha the immensity of her 
action; her thoughts drifted back into the 
channel of her morning reverie from which 
had sprung the wondering meditation of : 

“ How much of her private life the press 
really knew/' 

There had been only a few months between 
the beautiful past with Clarence Willard and 
herself as actors, and her return to Paris for 
her engagement at the opera. 

Few months, indeed. And for once, in one 
instance, at least, the vigilance of the press 
had been eluded. How it relieved Jos6pha 
to know that. 

How much the papers had fussed over her 
friendship with the Due de Montpierre, this 
exiled prince of the French dynasty, who 
had come to Paris, entering the army after 
having been arrested for stepping on French 
soil. 

A masterful stroke of acting by which he 
had aroused the patriotism of every French- 
man. 

‘‘ Si je ne peux pas etre prince, je serai 


Josdpha, 97 

soldat tout de meme ” (if I cannot be prince I 
shall at least be a P'rench soldier), had won 
their enthusiasm. And there had been even 
a feeling brewing amongst the masses, a feel- 
ing to recall the edict of expulsion against 
the old house, which movement, the Repub- 
licans said, meant danger to the French 
Republic — a restoration of the monarchy. 

While the young prince thus masterfully 
played the part of a patriot, fanning the grow- 
ing sympathy of the masses with the compul- 
sory martyrdom of his family’s position, 
which, French at heart, had to live on for- 
eign soil, he employed his moments of leisure 
in other directions as well. 

Amongst the worshippers at the shrine of 
Jos^pha, his tall figure, his long, narrow face, 
were ever present. 

It had tickled the vanity of the singer to 
see at her feet a real duke. It had seemed 
easier for her to forget Clarence Willard’s 
sudden departure without a word of farewell, 
over this new sensation in her life. 

She had been very kind to this young scion 


98 


Josdpha, 


of the old French dynasty, courting, as it 
were, his adulation, and awakening in his 
youthful breast a passion she little returned. 

Public attention, however, had been kept 
away from this friendship between prince 
and actress, since the patriotic part played by 
the young duke in those days was all absorb- 
ing — too sublime, too great, indeed, to be 
polluted by a mere mention of a trifle such as 
a liaison between prince and singer. 

Thus there was nothing heard about their 
attachment in those days, although it had 
been already formed. 

Right after the close of the opera season in 
Paris, Jos^pha had undertaken an operatic 
and concert tour through Europe. It was at 
the outset of this journey that notoriety be- 
gan to link the duke’s name publicly with 
hers ; that his aureole of patriotism was for- 
gotten over his amorous persecutions of the 
diva. 

At Brussels, Jos^pha had been surprised to 
discover the face of Monsieur le due in one of 


99 


Josdpha, 

the boxes. Such was the case at Berlin. 
And while she did not encourage his glances 
of fervent solicitation, his daring advances of 
passion, she, at least, overlooked them, being 
as they were a daily occurrence in her life of 
singer and beautiful woman. 

She felt even that sense of satisfaction 
which we experience at the sight of a well- 
known face in strange lands and cities. That 
feeling that makes us kin to each other under 
circumstances of that nature. 

She was happy to find somebody to whom 
she could talk of Paris in the beloved tongue. 
She also appreciated the commercial value of 
this gratis advertisement, for every announce- 
ment of her appearance would wind up some- 
thing like, 

“ It is understood that Monsieur le Due de 
Montpierre is one of the party of the famous 
singer’s retinue.” Retinue ! — treated like a 
queen. 

Thus they had traveled together as friends, 
exchanging views over the customs of the 
countries through which the course of their 


lOO 


Jos^pha. 


travels took them. Criticizing and laughing 
at things different from what they were in 
France. For that part is ever the most de- 
lightful epoch of our travels in foreign lands, 
our mute or loud criticisms. '‘Qa. ne se 
fait pas com me ga chez nous.” It is differ- 
ent with us at home.” “ Wie ganz anders als 
zu Hause.” All these little utterances, which 
show how much we are all more or less crea- 
tures of environments, and fond of our “ home, 
sweet home.” 

Into these pleasant conversations, which 
Josepha possessed a gift to draw out of every- 
body ; whether she liked or disliked a person, 
she could always turn out their best qualities, 
much like one turns a sleeve inside out; 
there would break at times a storm of passion- 
ate entreaties. However, these were received 
with a promising smile of future possibilities 
only, never with an outspoken encourage- 
ment. So while in Paris, the papers were 
coming out daily with long articles of the 
latest sensations about Monsieur le due et 
Mme. la cantatrice, with reports of how the 


lOI 


Jos^pha. 

prince was ruining himself for the singer’s 
sake, the much-discussed couple were simply 
traveling together in good fellowship, and the 
young duke spent perhaps less money than 
he ever did in all his life before. 

One thing the papers reported correctly, 
an occurrence at the Imperial Opera House 
in Moscow. Monsieur le Ducde Montpierre, 
under the incognito of Monsieur le Comte 
de Nemours, had had the audacity to applaud 
the famous singer first, an act entirely con- 
trary to the customs of Russia, where the 
ruler is expected to give his approval of 
applause, by clapping his hands, his disap- 
proval by remaining silent; a show which 
the audience faithfully imitates. 

Monsieur le Due de Montpierre, unac- 
quainted as he was with this custom of the 
country, had wished to make apologies to the 
imperial head, but his card had been returned 
to him with this observation ; 

“ That His Majesty C(Hild not find, in the 
whole Almanac De Gotha, the name of a 
family such as counts and countesses De 


102 


JosSpha, 

Nemours. That so far as he could remem- 
her, a family of that name only existed in 
opera, and : Qu® sa Maj^st^ n avait pas 
I’habitude de re^evoir les princes et dues de 
theatre.” (That His Majesty was not in the 
habit of receiving the princes and dukes of 
the theatrical world.) 

Jos6pha, tired at last of the attentions of 
the prince, especially as they were no more 
productive of extra revenues by strength of 
their advertising qualities, for her journey 
was over, had found an occasion to dodge 
the vigilance of her knight, and had fled to 
the Alps. 

This was in short the famous scandal of 
Monsieur le Due de Montpierre et Mme. la 
cantatrice de I’Opera Frangaise, la cMebre 
Jos^pha. 

How insignificant the importance given to 
these little daily occurrences of her operatic 
career, how much greater the amusement 
derived from them, the smile all to herself, 
indicated what flitted over the singer’s face 
as she lived over again in her memory, the 


Jos^phd, 


103 


da3’S of that famous voyage of triumphs, 
with its pleasant remembrances and inci- 
dents. 


Why must this man, this Clarence Willard 
turn up again, now, when she thought she 
had learned to forget the heart-beatings of 
that ardent love? 

Yes, why return now, when she had torn 
down the bridge between her past and a 
pleasant future on his side ; unalterably, 
when she had vowed to live for her art alone, 
her music as lover. When she had, like a 
good merchant, taken an inventory of her 
stock, and made up her mind to derive a 
thousandfold profits of her ware ? 

Why had this man come back? Why had 
she looked at him on the other side across 
the mountain torrent, the bridge torn down 
forever ? Yes, why had she beguiled him to 
plunge back once more into the foaming 
waves of passion, and bid him come back to 
her upon this land of hers, where there was 
no more room for him by the few written 
lines beginning My dearest Clarence ? 


Why ? For did the fact that he had come 
back all the long way over the broad Atlantic 
not give her an answer? Did it not show her 
a set purpose. Must she not needs under- 
stand his change of views? Was not the 
meaning this that he had overcome his scru- 
ples about her past. That he was even then 
ready to forget them if she would become his 
wife? 

The scruples about her past ! Indeed, Jos6- 
pha knew them well, since it was she who had 
written the fatal letter delivered to Clarence 
six months ago. Since she herself had been 
waiting below in front of his hotel in a cab 
and followed him to Mme. Trebini’s where 
she knew well that he would be informed of 
all. 

Indeed, she had been very honest with 
Clarence — very severe with herself. True, 
after her return that morning she had been 
waiting, hoping against hope that Clarence 
might overlook the shady incidents of her 
past and come back to claim her his. 

He had not come then, he was to return 
now ! 


Josdpha, 105 

There arose the question that confronted 
her. There arose with it events, unalterable 
events, happened since between the happy 
past and the dark present. To think that she 
had not waited in patience, that she had 
trifled away a blessed future, on this man’s 
side, in the short time of six intervening 
months, forfeited, because of her contempti- 
ble avidity for wealth, her craving for luxury. 

Still the dice had been thrown. He would 
hasten to her on the receipt of her letter ! 

This she knew, and she must draw up her 
plans for future action. She must decide 
whether she shall listen once more to her 
honest heart, drive him away as before, or 
whether she must play a comedy of decep- 
tions indeed, just for the sake of another 
short taste of bliss and happiness and forget- 
fulness — even possession perhaps ; and this 
latter course seemed to her the only one. 
After all, he was but a man, different from his 
brothers, more virtuous then they, but still a 
strong man, able to forget. After all, sooner 
or later, he would have to drink of the bitter 


io6 Josipha. 

draught of woman’s fickleness or selfish- 
ness ! 

And with such and like reflections she put 
to slumber her conscience and only thought 
of the hours of bliss which the future bore in 
its lap for her and her beloved. 

Thus it happened : 

However the man lying in her arms an 
hour later was not the same old Clarence 
Willard of six months ago. Jos^pha’s scru- 
tinizing glances, diving into his very soul, dis- 
covered an undeceivable look of levity, a dis- 
covery confirmed by his pallid, sunken cheeks. 

But, strange to say, Jos6pha hailed this 
change with joy. It gave her promises of 
greater pleasure than ever experienced be- 
fore of sweet possession. It appeared to her 
even the only reason why this man had not 
asked her the questions that she had looked 
for — why he had closed her mouth even with 
kisses, when she started to make explana- 
tions— more yet— a confession, for her heart 
was running over with tenderness. She was 
in a mood when she would have laid her 


107 


Josdpha, 

whole soul bare before him — when it would 
have seemed salvation to confess her whole 
mherable, selfish past life. 

Thus fate had deprived her of this oppor- 
tunity. Fate ! What multitude of sins — 
excuses — crimes — this little word covers ! 

This change of looks in Clarence ; the 
sign of satisfied desires — of ideals — virtues 
immolated on the altars of human realism, 
human weaknesses! What avenues of pos- 
sibilities it opened before the singer’s eyes. 
How it diminished the conscience of guilt 
which would have hovered around her even 
in his very arms, had he returned such as he 
was before. 

A relief the change was indeed: 

She believed that he would be more her 
equal now, since he had at last decended 
from his lofty pedestal of inherited goodness 
to the sweet but sinful level of her own exis- 
tence. 

. And such it really seemed. 

No more the jarring little occurrences of 
jealousy marred the beatitude of their love. 




io8 Josipha. 

It was all changed. The woman gave her- 
self up with more abandonment to this man, 
feeling no more so far beneath him, the man 
accepted all thankfully without a question. 

Still great as the change was, happier as 
their relations were, in one point Jos^pha had 
been deceived. 

Her frivolous little heart could never un- 
derstand the sanctity of this man’s love. She 
still hoped. But why he had not long ago 
accepted her views of life, why their rela- 
tions, so infinitely more perfect than then, 
were still no other but what they had been 
six months ago, that, she could not conceive. 

Nor why he still talked of marriage, of a 
future, when she was thinking of that future 
with a dread and seeing, to her sorrow, the 
present fleeing without accomplishing her 
wishes. 

Little indeed she understood his love. He 
would no more have thought of contaminat- 
ing it by a careless word than if she had been 
the Virgin herself. For him, Josepha, even 
with her squalid past, was still an angel. 


\ 


JosdpJia, 109 

When he spoke of marriage it was a revela- 
tion to study the many subterfuges by which 
Jos^pha invariably escaped a direct answer. 

She would fondle her head on his breast 
like of old and make him forget his question, 
as though the caressing of her red curls 
brought oblivion to him. 

Or, she would suddenly at that stage of 
their conversation pretend to have forgotten 
or to think of something that ought to be 
done at once and excuse herself. Then, when 
she entered the room again, it would always 
be with an exclamation having reference to 
this something that had attracted her atten- 
tion. 

Little occurrences of everyday life were 
brought into play. 

“ Que la cuisini^re avait cass6 un autre 
verre” ( that the cook had broken a glass), 
which noise she had heard. 

Or, she would re-qnterthe room apparently 
excited, Mais mon perroquet me rendra 
folle encore, voilkqu’il s’est pris une fantaisie 
de crier mon nom tout le jour. Cela ne t’ 


I lO 


Josipha. 


ennuie done point ? ” (Well, I believe, this 
parrot will make me insane ! Here he has 
taken a notion to call my name all day. Does 
it not annoy you ?) 

Whereupon Clarence would stammer an 
amorous “ Si cela t’ ennuie tu devrais bien 
me donner ce joli gargon pour faire des com- 
paraisons. Tu sais.” ( If it annoys you, you 
ought to give me the little bird in order to 
draw up comparisons you know !) 

Now all these things Jos6pha never paid 
the slightest attention to otherwise. For 
neither was she fond to play, “ la menagere 
nor knew the parrot any other word but 
Jos6pha. Being a present of a South Ameri- 
can admirer who undoubtedly intended to 
stir up a sentiment of interest in the singer’s 
heart for him over his manifested devotion 
to her in the bird’s vocabulary, the easy 
exhaustion of which was, to say the least, 
monotonous. And so his cage had been hung 
up in a remote corner where he could prac- 
tice his “ Jos^pha ” all day long, looking up 
sideways out of his sleepy little eyes, 


Ill 


Josipha. 

And so the days went on and nothing new 
had happened until one morning. 

There had been among the foreign mail for 
Jos^pha, among the letters from America, 
one just like the others that never failed to 
arrive every day. One just like them, in a 
man’s heavy handwriting, bearing the stamp 
of the Chicago post-office. 

Now, whenever these letters arrived in 
days before, Josepha would always betake 
herself to her music-room, where, as we have 
said before, a slow fire was burning in the 
grate, summer and winter. 

There only would she open these American 
letters, and destroy them at once in the glow- 
ing coals after a careful reading. 

And while at other times the tall French 
looking-glasses had reflected the singer’s 
queenly form, in all manner of dress, nude 
even, if she was rehearsing the part of 
“I’Africaine,” for Josepha believed in true 
rendition of everything pertaining to the 
character of her part, and she was never 
guilty of those anachronisms in dress in his- 


I 12 


Josipha. 


torical plays, such as the “Huguenots,” 
which mar so many of our historical plays of 
to-day — repeating her role; on these occa- 
sions they would invariably reveal her beau- 
tiful face with an expression on it of anger 
and disgust. 

And so again that morning she had betaken 
herself to the same room, had opened the 
letter with the same expression of wrath and 
disgust, becoming very pale and pensive as 
she proceeded reading it. But while every 
scrap of former letters had been scrupulously 
burnt, this one did not travel the same 
road. 

It was carefully hidden in the folds of her 
ample dress, as though bearing an important 
secret ; later on, put away in a golden cas- 
sette on her boudoir’s dressing-table. 

That same afternoon she had sat by Clar- 
ence’s side, just like they had been together 
day after day, still pale, with a look of dis- 
tress in her eyes. 

And again he had spoken of the future, of 
marriage, of a life of happiness. Again, at this 


Josipha, I j ^ 

moment, like before on such occasions she had 
excused herself. To no avail, however, for 
he had caught her skirt and pulled her back. 

You always run away when I speak of 
marriage. 1 ell me, Jos6pha, why do you thus 
try lo escape an answer to my question?” 

But Jos^pha’s eyes had filled with tears. 
She threw herself upon his breast sobbing all 
the while “ that she could not marry him.” 

With this outburst of grief a wondering 
smile had lit the young man’s face. 

So often had he listened to Jos^pha’s, ‘‘ I am 
unworthy of you,” at times, when his suit had 
been pressed stronger than ever, that he 
could not think of any other reason for her 
evident suffering but her feeling of guilt. 

^ And so, following the trend of his presump- 
tion, he had tried to reassure her with prom- 
ises of how he would never allude to her 
past ; no more than he had done since his 
return. That he himself had been as guilty 
as she had in sinning. That they would 
overlook each other’s faults entirely as man 
and wife in his own far home. 


Jos^pha. 


114 

But even between his pleading, Jos^pha 
had torn herself away from his embrace, re- 
turning presently with a letter, the letter 
from Chicago, which, unable to talk, she had 
mutely motioned him to read. 

Then, while his eyes had eagerly devoured 
the contents of the fateful missive, she had 
stood over him with her arms open, her face 
bent, ready to throw herself on his neck. 

For now, when he must needs give up all 
hope of ever wedding her, might he not still 
love her like she wanted to be loved, like 
most men love woman? 

And so, when the letter had dropped from 
his hands, when he sat there annihilated, 
overcome and silent, possessing that one 
secret of her life, that part of it, she had so 
jealously, artfully withheld from the press; 
she had thrown herself upon his breast. 

Chicago, 1894. 

My Dearest Wife:— I have been con- 
scientiously exploring all possible means of 
discovering the whereabouts of your sister, 


Josipha. jj^ 

who, as you told me, had been adopted years 
ago by a family in D . 

All I have been able to ascertain is this 
much ; 

It seems that after the reverse in our 
" country’s financial system, this family, whose 
name was Blake, had lost their entire for- 
tune, involved in enterprises which suffered 
complete stagnation from this change. 

The Blakes not wishing to undergo the 
humiliation of living as paupers in a com- 
munity where they had been the leaders of 

society, shortly after this left .D for parts 

unknown, covering up their tracks so well 
that not even detectives, employed by me in 
this case, have been able to locate their pres- 
ent whereabouts, nor at least to ascertain 
into what part of this great country of ours 
West, East, North or South they have gone. 

You must admit, sweetheart, unbearable 
as this long separation from you, my darling, 
has been to your patient Fred, I have fulfilled 
my promise at least. 

I have worked hard to achieve a thing 


T 1 6 J osipha^ 

which seemed to mean so much happiness to 
your good sisterly heart. But since success 
is out of the question, since I shall be unable 
to bring back your sister, I shall not waste 
any more of the remaining days of my life, 
so precious to me, since I call you mine, 
away from you. 

In a week from date, I shall sail from New 
York and remain with you in Paris, until 
your engagement is over; until you will feel 
at liberty to follow me into my western 
home. 

I have kept our marriage a secret, since 
you so desired it, but fear my friends are 
anticipating a surprise of this kind every 
day, eluded although they have been — for 
the renovation of my bachelor-hall on the 
lake front, has made them shake their heads, 
and it takes all my wits to answer their 
many teasing inquiries without committing 
myself. 

I shall bring you photographs of our Chi- 
cago home as well as of our summer resi- 
dence on the Hudson, “ Ernesthorst,”, and 


Josdpha. 


117 

especially a few views of the interior so that 
you may feel at once as entering familiar 
(Quarters when coming over with me. 

You will have to bear the storm of my 
kisses when I arrive, as best you can, my dai^ 
ling, for I assure you I am starved and have 
been craving for them ever since you sent 
me on this chase, which you made a condi- 
tion of our marriage. 

With love and many kisses, I am, 

Your affectionate husband, 
Fred. S. Earnest. 

She had thrown herself upon his breast, 
remaining there unmolested while the stupor 
lasted. ^ 

At last, however, when the re-action came, 
when Clarence tried to disengage himself,’ 
there had begun a fierce struggle between 
man and woman, between her desire to save 
from the wreck of her hopes all she could 
and to make capital of it as long as she held 
it, and his unwillingness to yield. One try- 
ing to get away— the other hanging on with 
death’s grip. 


ii8 Josipha. 

Then, during this desperate wrestling, be- 
tween short pants of flying breath, her con- 
fession — unsparinglj’ frank ! 

How she had met this Frederic S. Earnest 
at Geneva shortly after her concert and op- 
eratic tour, at a time when even the large 
receipts of this journ6e had not sufficed to 
satisfy all her creditors. 

A man of fifty, with a ruddy complexion 
and jovial, pleasant manners, an American 
millionaire, a pork packer, making the contin- 
ent with a jolly party of his own countrymen. 

How, still suffering from the loss of his 
love, pressed by her creditors, she had been 
introduced to Mr. Earnest in a frame of 
mind when his half fatherly, half loverly, 
soothing way of talking had seemed so 
pleasant, so refreshing ; when the lavish ex- 
penditure of money in entertaining her had 
at once given her hungry, thirsty heart for 
wealth and luxury, an intimation of his vast 
fortune. 

And so one day, this man of wealth had 
come to her, excited, flushed, full of Ameri- 


Josipha. 


119 

can open-heartedness and begged her for her 
hand ; begged, as though she would be step- 
ping down to him from heavenly heights. 

There had been no questions asked about 
her past, no condition made on his part; the 
conditions had been all on her side. 

A private wedding, the secrecy of which 
must be kept until after the end of the opera 
season, when her contract would run out. 

Nothing but conditions on her side, — on 
his, sacrifices only ; his wealth, his station, 
above all, his good name. Not even a de- 
mand for love and affection; a simple trade 
between man and woman; one selling her- 
self, the other paying the price asked, much 
like Mr. Earnest would buy his live stock 
for his Chicago packing-house, if the price 
suited him. Va! 

After all, what better could she expect 
with her past? Had not his desertion shown 
her the way men ordinarily look at these 
things? Yet, much as she owed her hus- 
band (he had paid all her debts) the distaste- 
ful hours of the honeymoon following her se- 


120 


Jos dp ha. 

cret marriage at Fernay, had opened her eyes 
to the utter hopelessness of this new existence.. 
She had been very glad indeed, that, fore- 
seeing in her clear, commercial little mind 
this result even, she had made it a condition 
of her consent to the marriage, that he must 
let her go alone to Paris, return himself with 
his party of friends to America, where he 
must try to find her sister. 

Thus, really had she rid herself of him, for 
after all, what did she care about her sister, 
what did it matter to her whether they 
would ever meet again? They had been 
separated so long, grown up under different 
conditions, strangers indeed ! But a capital 
idea it had been, so touching too, to send Mr. 
Earnest away on a wild goose chase,” after 
a sister, dead perhaps for years, while it had re- 
leased her of her husband’s embarrassing pres- 
ence, afforded her so unexpectedly another 
short period of bliss and happiness with him. 

Would she give up her art to follow Mr! 
Earnest in his renovated bachelor’s hall at 
Chicago, to be indeed an old man’s darling? 


I2I 


Josipha, 

Jamais de la vie ! She loved her art too well 
to give it up for a life the short experience of 
her honeymoon had taught her to detest. 

Marriage, divorce ; to enter into one was 
no more difficult than to gain the other 1 

Ah! had this Mr. Earnest been another, had 
it been him, Clarence Willard, how different 
an aspect things might have taken, how will- 
ingly she would have given up her musical 
career to lead a life of happiness on his side. 

Still, could it ever have come to that? 
would she not again remind him of her past, 
or see that others did, like in the one letter 
she had written him some six months ago, 
when he had offered her marriage, when she 
had said neither yes nor no, the letter on the 
receipt of which he had hurried to Mme. 
Trebini’s and had heard all ? 

If frivolous, if bad, she had been honest at 
least with those she loved. 

And since he had forgotten Monsieur Tin- 
tendant, what difference did it make if she 
was Mme. Frederic S. Earnest in private? 
Had he even guessed the change, was she 


therefore less lovable ? Was love and hap- 
piness and passion depending on a name, a 
relationship, so meaningless when life, her 
soul, her very body even belonged to him 
still? Why was he not like.other men, why 
did he not take life as it offered itself? 
Why ? 


Qu’y a-t-il qui nous empechera 
D’aimer encore d’ aimer tonjours 
La vie est dure la vie est courte 
Un fou mon frere si tu Toublies ! 

(What is there in this world to hinder us 
Of loving now, of loving ever, 

For life is hard and life is short 

And foolish are you, friend, if you forget it.) 


Jos^pha, 


123 


VI. 

And so, if Clarence had fled from the Rue 

de , if he had not entered into the singer’s 

views, it was only because of the sanctity of 
his great love which Jos6pha’s frivolous, 
little heart could never comprehend. 

Because of that sanctity which character- 
izes a great heart’s passion, such as Clarence’s, 
allowing not even a contaminating thought 
of impurity. 

Still after all, he was but a man, a man not 
like others before his experience in the school 
of passion, but much so now when his veil of 
idealism had been torn from his eyes for- 
ever. 

VVe must, therefore, despoil him of his 
aureole of virtue, of self-imposed abstinence, 
since he had summed up his whole life, dis- 
sected Jos^pha’s last eruption of passion, her 


124 


Josipha. 

temptingly uttered “ why nots/’ and came to 
the conclusion that he had really been a fool 
his life long, more so especially in the last 
few months. 

Later on, on the transatlantic steamer, he 
had been surprised at the ease with which he 
had entered upon the new role of his life, 
at his aptitude of quick learning; for no 
more he shunned the company of others, 
wishing to be left alone with his all-absorb- 
ing love for Josepha, like he had done on a 
former trip, but more often found himself 
the central figure amongst a bevy of return- 
ing compatriots of the opposite sex. 

And as every great passion leaves behind 
some mark on our countenances, a new look, 
smile, frown or twitching of muscles even ; 
so the great tragedy of his affection had 
stamped his brow with that touch of melan- 
choly which becomes so interesting to 
woman. 

So quick in fact did he learn to play an 
entirely new part, so well did he show his 
disenchantment from his views of woman- 


Josdpha, 125 

hood in general, that words escaped his 
mouth, words impossible in the old Clarence 
Willard ; shocking, frank little sayings which 
a woman will overlook quicker than coyness 
and backwardness in a man, for which she 
likes him better. 

And thus it happened that Mr. Clarence 
Willard became a “ number ” in the matri- 
monial speculations of those who called New 
York their home, of those who moved in the 
same society as he did. And the chiffre ” 
rendered the problem — the calculation, a 
lather difficult one, yet more interesting, 
when it was found that he was no other than 
Mr. Clarence Willard, the oil magnate of 
Wall St., who had thus far so obstinately 
kept away from the 400’s teas and dinners 
and ball and theatre parties ; this same charm- 
ing entertainer, the fluent French, linguist, a 
man they had heard described as a miser and 
misanthrope. 

So that when Bartholdi’s “ liberte 6clairant 
le monde ” loomed up in the distance, Clar- 
ence found himself richer of many acquaint- 


1 26 Josdpha, 

ances, his card case stuffed with numerous 
little squares of papier de satin, with '' At 
home Mondays," ‘‘at home Tuesdays," “ at 
home " all other days of the week, and^ his 
note-book full of promises made on various 
occasions. 

Many were the significant little calls, with 
more significant smiles which were hurled at 
him by all the varieties of voices — sopranos, 
sweetand bewitching; altos, emotionally deep 
—when they had landed. Little “ don’t fail to 
call," and “All revoirs," and “ a revoirs," 
which were not even forgotten amidst the 
general confusing acts of embracing brothers, 
cousins and fathers. 

And on the evening of his arrival he had 
strolled into the club, having promised one of 
his steamer acquaintances, a member of the 
same club, to be “ on deck." 

He had met many friends of William 
Grant, listened to the latest reports of sport- 
ing life over foaming “ Sec," and still later on, 
when the fumes began to loosen tongues, to 
the confidences of many a sinner ! 


V 


Josdpha. 


127 


Thus the first day of his arrival in New 
York marked the beginning of a new life — 
an existence in which he would do like others, 
love like others, and think no more of the past 
— just like others ! 

At the office, on the morning following his 
first day in New York, after having shaken 
hands cordially with his men, he sat down, 
penning a long letter to William Grant at 
Paris, addressing him “Dear Billy” (it had 
always been “ William ”) describing his trip, 
the many new acquaintances he had made 
and discharging scrupulously the wishes and 
regards of all those that had asked to be re- 
membered to him at the club; of Josepha 
not even a word. 

But even while he thus willingly ignored 
her he loved, even while he was addressing 
the letter to William Grant; there floated to 
him from the adjoining room the melody of 
a quaint old song, sweet and bewitching. 
His chest commenced to heave up and down, 
and a sigh came forth, so full of woe, for the 
voice was “hers” or much like hers and it 
must be a dream, oh sweetest of dreams! 


128 


Josipha, 

And how long he thus sat, he did not know. 
He suddenly noticed the general quietness of 
the office only and a hot stream ol sunlight 
entering from the windows, burning his back, 
for it was midday. Then, while lowering the 
curtains, he saw the emptiness of the adjoin- 
ing offices. He quietly stepped up to the 
half-open door from which the voice still 
continued, not as clear as at first, but mum- 
bled, as of one eating and singing at the same 
time. 

Then he beheld the singer’s figure. 

Her back turned toward him, seated in one 
of those reclining desk chairs, her legs com- 
fortably stretched on the seat of another, dis- 
playing a pretty ankle and a suspicion of 
white lingerie. Staring out through the win- 
dow into the blue winter sky, munching her 
noonday lunch and singing at the same time 
through her nose, a young woman, at her side 
the typewriting machine. 

But the hair, that peculiar red hair of 
Jos^pha’s, and the whole figure so much like 
hers ; could it be possible that there were 


Josdpka, 


129 


two alike, or was it a creation of his cham- 
pagne-fed imagination of the night before. 

And while he stood there, undecided 
whether to speak or keep silent, the mumbled 
singing kept on until it suddenly stopped 
while the head turned and her hands brushed 
off the crumbs from her lap, in another mo- 
ment flinging the paper napkin into the waste 
basket. 

But the one turn of her head had revealed 
to him another surprise; the profile of the 
singer. And unable to resist his curiosity 
any longer, anxious to solve the mystery, he 
coughed slightly, addressing the girl, whose 
face was flushed with confusion at thus hav- 
ing been watched, in French, like he had 
been used to talk to her in Paris. “ Et je ne 
reve done point, C’ est bien toi, Jos^pha?” 
(No, I am not dreaming. It is indeed you, 
Jos^pha.) 

Yet, even while he had spoken; in the ful- 
ness of her oval face turned towards him, he 
had discovered a difference of expression; a 
greater youth in these features. Still the in- 


130 


Josipha, 


tonation of the voice was Jos6pha’s, for the 
girl had stammered. 

“ Pardon me, sir. My knowledge of French 
is very limited. I can merely understand it 
and my name is not Jos^pha, but Mary, your 
most humble typewriter; lor, I believe, I 
have the honor of talking to Mr. Clarence 
Willard.” 

Whereupon he had kindly shaken hands 
with the girl, the touch seeming again as the 
other’s. 

And he had sat down next to her. And it 
had appeared to both, as though they had 
met somewhere in former life talking as they 
did like two old friends. He telling her about 
her resemblance to a very dear friend, this 
with so much sadness, that the girl’s pity had 
found expression in a sweet sigh from her 
young bosom, her rosy lips. 

A feeling of rapture penetrated his very 
nerves and blood when she spoke and 
laughed and looked at him. And all so like 
Jos^pha, and again so different, so pure, so 
sweet, so quieting, not with that instillation 
of heat and passion and heart-breaking. 


Josdpha, 1 3 1 

And thus he had sat and listened to her 
story of herself. For there lingered in him 
a suspicion that this resemblance was too re- 
markable. That there must needs be a con- 
nection somewhere. Besides he thought of 
that one sister of Josepha who had been to 
the singer the ignominious pretext for banish- 
ing and keeping at a distance a husband of 
whom she had been tired in a few days. 

This he thought of. For the girl’s story, 
coinciding as it was in many points, her adop- 
tion by people of wealth in the very place of 
D , their sudden impoverishment and de- 

parture from the West, might have been the 
same identical facts ascertained by the detec- 
tives in Mr. Frederic S. Earnest’s employ- 
ment ; the death of her foster-parents, the 
necessity of making her own bread and 
butter ; but the sequel, a continuation of the 
case, lacked only one prominent link, the 
memory of her ever having had a s’ster. 

“ Did you ever have a sister ?” 

“Not that I know; it seems to me my 
parents would have told me, if I had. Why 
do you ask ?” 


132 


Jos dp ha. 

To this question, so natural as it was, 
Clarence had answered with a dissimulation 
of his real object : 

“Because 1 myself never possessed either 
brother or sister, and often wished it might 
have been different. For I think there can be 
nothing more pleasant than to have some- 
body related to you in that close way.” 

A sentence which meant nothing ! Thus, 
while still pondering and cursing his memory 
for not retaining the name of the other girl’s 
adopted parents which had been given in Mr. 
Earnest’s letter ; the girl said her people’s 
name had been Blake. He did not even 
form a resolution to write to Grant, so that 
he again might communicate with Jos^pha 
in, reference to this singular similarity. 

He remembered, too, Jos^pha’s “ what after 
all did she care about a sister separated from 
her so long, a stranger because of circum- 
sta nces.” 

It looked to him, that ignorant as the girl 
was of any possible parentage with this other 
one, innocent as she appeared to be; she was 
best left alone in her daily humdrum life. 


Josipha. 133 

Little he dreamt of that importance he 
was to play in this humdrum life of the girl. 
Little he anticipated of how necessary the 
daily conversational intercourse with her was 
to become to him. How, inch by inch, 
gradually, his heart was to be imbued with 
another love. 

Another love — nay, for he still loved Jo- 
sepha. The other he loved only for her re- 
semblance to another one, her very magnet- 
ism so like the singer. 

And the girl ? 

Ah, her little typewriter soul fluttered 
easily into the net of his passions. Her 
sweet little American heart, so full of tender- 
ness, of love. Her commercial little mind so 
thirsty for wealth, for dress, position, and 
theatres ! 

At first Clarence held this new love of his 
as sacred as the other — that for Jos6pha. 
But as, by daily contact, he became more and 
more used to discern a difference between 
the two ; Josipha soared high above the 
other, leaving below a poor, pretty type- 


134 


Jos^pha, 


writer girl, ready to flirt, ready to — no, but 
that he could not nay as yet ; he had loved 
them both alike in a saint platonic way ! 

Then with the consciousness of the differ- 
ence, Jos^pha’s frivolous soul detaching itself 
from Mary’s as it were, soaring back amongst 
his ideals of old ; his new r 61 e suddenly be- 
gan to dawn upon him, his new role, which 
he had played so well since his return to 
New York — but never with this one. 

And how easy it had been. How willingly 
the girl had consented to have her wings 
trimmed; to be a little kept bird, deprived 
of its liberty ! 

And the delightful life afterwards ! At 
first the Bohemian little excursions on the 
Hudson with everybody ; a Sunday crowd 
of happy New Yorkers. Later on — the 
more refined fancies of the girl calling for a 
season on the seashore — a few happy weeks 
in the surf! 

Yes, what a fool he had been ! What years 
of youth gone to waste ! 

And one day William Grant had come 


Josipha. 135 

back with lots of news and many loves from 
one abroad. 

The friends had shaken hands. 

“ Old man, how are you ? looking devilish 
well!” This accompanied with significant 
little tappings on the back. 

Then, while they had indulged in these and 
other friendly nothings ; glad to see each 
other again, and while William had unbut- 
toned to acquit himself of his various com- 
missions from abroad; a footman had come 
in, with : 

“ The carriage is below, sir 1 ” 

Whereupon they had at once gone down 
together in the elevator, Clarence making 
excuses for the necessity of cutting short the 
meeting at this hour, with a peculiar wink of 
his eye, but insisting that they must see each 
other at the club in the evening. 

“ Come and take supper with me at the 
club at eight o’clock, I have got bushels of 
things to tell you.” 

In front of the building they had hurriedly 
shaken hands, Clarence entering the open 


136 Josipha. 

landau, sitting down beside a woman of re- 
markable beauty, dressed in the height of 
fashion; with Josepha’s features, smile, and 
white skin, and her red hair, which Billy be- 
held gleaming far away, when the carriage- 
door had been closed on Clarence by the foot- 
man, and the carriage was thundering down 
the narrow office street turning into Broad- 
way. 

And then William Grant had dropped in 
at the club for a quiet digestion of all this 
unexpected change in his friend, ordering a 
sobering glass of Manitou, as though he felt 
himself under the effects of liquor. 

But soon his own perceptions of these 
changes had been confirmed by remarks of 
others, friends dropping in at random, greet- 
ing him with: “Well Billy, old chap, so 
glad to see you back! ” “ When did you ar- 

rive?” and, “ Come, have a drink with me,” 
etc. Thus had he gathered a good deal of 
information. 

“ Who is she ?” 

“ Sa maitresse, une inconnue, charmante et 


Josdpha, 137 

chic.” (His mistress, an unknown charming 
and chtc girl.) “ The trouble is, he is doing 
the thing too openl}^ — in a care-devil way. 
Cottage at Newport, establishment on the 
Hudson, God knows where else. Of course^ 
he has got the money ! It would ruin me, it 
would ruin you, but that is not the question. 
The question is the publicity of this liaison, 
after he has been present and a guest of all 
(he swell functions ! Should not be surprised 
at all to see him at the Metropolitan occupy- 
ing a box with her some day.” 

That same evening when the two friends 
sat down together to the sumptuous supper 
at the club, their conversation naturally drift- 
ing back to Paris, Laviere and Josdpha, 
Grant, or rather Billy, as Clarence called him 
now, noticed still more the many little 
changes of his friend. The carefully dressed 
hair, the manicured finger-nails and the look 
of happiness and fulness of life. He noticed, 
too, the many glasses of champagne poured 
down his throat. And so he only related 
news in general. 


38 


Jo sip ha. 


Jos^pha’s marriage (Clarence had not be- 
trayed it) which had struck Paris like a bomb 
on a bright winter day soon after his depart- 
ure, the news of which, although it had taken 
place some months ago in Switzerland, had 
been very cleverly withheld from the press, 
until the arrival of the husband had made it 
impossible to do so any longer. The impend- 
ing divorce for no other reason but Jos^pha’s 
refusal to leave the stage, although her hus- 
band, Fred. S. Earnest, the wealthy packing- 
house owner of Chicago, had already spent 
thousatids of dollars for renovating his resi- 
dence at Chicago and for the purchase of 
various other real estate in the mountains and 
on the seashore. What a pleasant, jovial sort 
of an old fellow Fred, was! 

He did not speak of the hopes Jos^pha 
still cherished about another meeting be- 
tween Clarence and herself. After all 
Clarence was no better than the rest of fel- 
lows, “ Out of sight, out of mind.” This 
thought, however, he had to moderate some- 
what, later on, after Clarence’s confidential 


Josdpha. 139 

effusion about his mistress. Her hair so like 
Jos^pha’s ! Her eyes, her ears, her figure, 
her voice, shortly everything so like Jos^phas, 
a complete counterpart; lacking only the 
wit, the fervor, ce quelque chose qu’il ne 
" pouvait point expliquer. Va! 

(This something which he could not 
explain). 

And with this revival of old memories, 
their eyes had filled with tears of emotion; 
for both had not drunk too wisely. 


140 


Josdpha. 


VIL 

It was true, Clarence had shown very 
little consideration for the “ on dits " of the 
swell set with which his connections had 
been a good deal closer, after he had stepped 
down from the deck of the transatlantic 
steamer into his “ new ” life. He was of that 
frank character which gives itself as it is, 
naked in vice or virtue, above board, mak- 
ing no secret of its proclivities, be they good 
or bad. 

A man of course never suffers much from 
his indifference to conventionality, if wealthy 
and handsome, a good dresser and observer 
of the different fads of society. To a posi- 
tion of that kind and in every particular 
Clarence could lay claim. But while his 
escapades meant utter impunity for him, he 
could not quite escape the motherly admoni- 
tion of some of his older lady friends who 


141 


Josdpha, 

felt little ready to have this sinner spoil all 
their calculations about some match between 
him and a daughter of New York’s gilded 
nobility, by his recklessness. 

How little he heeded them is needless to 
say, since we gathered the information about 
the publicity of his liaison at the club with 
Billy Grant. 

About Mary Blake let us say this : 

Her little typewriter-soul had kept itself 
unusually pure and clean. She saw her 
sisters of profession indulge in luxuries far 
beyond the reach of their meager wages. 
But it took more than just the thirst for 
wealth, and position, and dress, and theatres, 
to induce her into a life like theirs. Her 
case indeed had one redeeming feature : her 
love for Clarence Willard. 

Their friendship had been an unusually 
happy one, lacking only the lawful tie, as it 
were, to render it as perfect as any other 
young household ; with a honeymoon, and 
later, the quieter pleasures. 

Still the position of the young and beauti- 


142 


Josdpha. 

ful woman was familiar to all of Clarence’s 
friends who saw her in his company contin- 
ually, and to a good many others, not his 
friends but mere acquaintances. 

By an outsider, one unacquainted with her 
relations to the oil magnate, she might have 
been taken for a young matron apparently 
belonging to the rich classes, very beautiful 
and remarkably attractive because of this her 
very unconsciousness of her beauty. 

This life of theirs, so quiet from its very 
domesticity, so recreating after the man’s 
toilsome days of business, went along 
smoothly. But there came a day of change, 
one day, a few weeks after Billy Grant’s re- 
turn, when the woman had blushingly, con- 
fusedly whispered something into Clarence’s 
ear. 

And had he not known it ? Had he dreamt? 
Had he been blind ? 

No, he had not thought of that, busy as he 
was with his daily wealth accumulation and 
his mind occupied with market quotations, 
and club, and turf, and regattas, leading as 


143 


JosdpJia, 

he did such a carelessly pleasing existence 
and yet one so full of consequences, as he had 
just learned with somewhat of a shock from 
Mary’s lips. 

How innocent she must have been, how 
very inexperienced with the ways of the 
wicked world to let it come to that. 

But the next day he had handed her a 
check for a large amount of money and he 
had told her she must deposit that in a bank 
and go away to an unknown place, when- 
ever she felt the time had come and she must 
not return to him until all was well over. 

Yes, all this he had done without any 
great self-command, as though it had been a 
daily occurrence with him. And he had 
said it in a tone of voice as though he had 
been giving an order to one of his clerks, in 
his quiet, pleasant manner. 

All this, without any effort. Clarence 
Willard, he who had been so virtuous and so 
good and so saintly in his love to Jos^pha ! 

And so, a few weeks or even a few months 
later, for the separation was put off as long 


144 


Josdpha. 

as ever possible, there would be no woman 
waiting for him in his elegant carriage below, 
when the footman had announced his: 

“ The carriage is below, sir,’' and he had 
descended in the elevator. 

Nor would the carriage drive straight 
back to his establishment either, when it had 
turned into Broadway ; but it would be seen 
waiting in front of the club where Clarence 
was taking his supper. 

After a while he would come out with 
Billy Grant or another friend, stopping a 
minute or two on the steps to light a cigar 
or to examine the '' tenue ” of his turnout. 

Then they would roll into Central Park, 
smoking their fragrant Havanas and talking 
politics, actresses, scandal — such as all good 
New Yorkers will do. 

Or, at times again, his carriage could be 
seen waiting — even longer than at the club — 
before some building in some street where, 
strange to say, the smartness of the turnout 
would attract attention even in this great 
city of New York ; many an inquisitive face 


145 


Josdpha. 

being stuck out of the windows. And when 
twilight was descending, Mr. Willard of 
Wall Street, the magnate oil king, would 
lead down the steps some swell-dressed lady, 
always good-looking, with whom he would 
laugh and chatter and seem very happy in- 
deed. Truly, Clarence Willard had changed 
— wonderfully — badly ! 


146 


Jos^pha. 


VIII. 

So months had passed. 

And one morning Billy Grant, espying 
Clarence in front of a newspaper booth 
across the street buying the morning paper, 
had run himself all out of breath to reach 
him, so that he could hardly impart his 
news. 

Have you heard the latest? Jos^pha is 
coming to New York!” 

Then, being somewhat exasperated over the 
questioning look of his friend, a look asking 
him “ Man, are you crazy ?” he had uncere- 
moniously grabbed the paper that the other 
had just bought from his hand and shown 
him on the first page the fat-printed head- 
lines : 

“MME. JOSfiPHA IS COMING! 


V 


' 147 


Josipha, 

Abbott, Stoll, and Stiefel succeed in win^ 
ning the famous singer for the coming opera 
season. Her salary, the highest ever paid to 
any singer !” 

And then, right there on the sidewalk, in 
the bracing morning air of a typical autumn 
day, both on their way to their offices ; they 
had perused together the article following 
the head lines. 

Billy Grant, in his excitement, forgetting 
himself even to the extent of reading aloud. 

Of the new r 61 e that she was to play, the 
salary of $5,000 to be paid her for each night 
on which she would sing. And an account 
of her entire life. Her American birth, the 
scandal of her liaison with the Due de Mont- 
pierre, her secret marriage to Frederic S. 
Earnest, the wealthy packer of Chicago, the 
talk about a divorce from him, her reconcili- 
ation with this same Frederic S. Earnest on 
his deathbed, just a few days before proceed- 
ings for an absolute divorce were to be insti- 
tuted. His will, leaving her the sole heir to 
his immense fortune, so that to-day she was 


148 Josipha. 

not only one of the wealthiest women in the 
world, but unquestionably the richest one on 
the stage. Her love for her profession, so 
evident now, when with all her money and 
wealth she still remained true to her art. 
The kindness shown by her to American 
tourists on the Continent and the assistance 
* rendered to musical students from the United 
States. Her kind sayings about America. 
How anxiously she was looking forward to 
her d6but there ! A lot of other flattering 
things for America and Americans. Clever 
Jos6pha! making capital again of her flattery 
by utilizing it for advertising herself well 
into the hearts of the American public, while 
she was still in Paris, being interviewed by 
the Heral(£s representative in regard to her 
engagement by Abbott, Stoll, and Stiefel 
at $5,000 a night ! 

The whole article, indeed, they went over 
together as minutely as they would have gone 
over some business proposition of special in- 
terest, watching each other all the time, for a 
revelation of their respective intentions for 


losipha. 149 

future actions which they might have be- 
trayed by a smile or a frown, 

And so, while they were discussing the 
news contained in the article, while Grant 
was folding up the paper, handing it to Clar- 
ence, they had walked up Broadway slowly, 
arm in arm. 

Already the news of the famous singer’s 
engagement was the common talk of ever}^- 
body, as they could judge from the familiar 
sound of the name Jos^pha and the still more 
familiar way in which people pronounced it. 
As though it had been an old household word 
for years. 

Already some of the more enterprising sta- 
tionery stores, availing themselves of the gen- 
eral interest, were displaying her photographs 
with a big placard, 50c. each for her Ophelias, 
Juliets, Medeas, Elsas, etc. 

At the club they were both amused at 
Senator James’ 

Well, dear Jos^pha is at last coming back 
to the land of fat silver dollars,” as though 
he had fondled her on his knees when a little 
girl, or known her all her life. 




150 Josf^pha. 

Then they sat down, making the occasion 
one of a holiday, thinking no more of business. 
They ordered their cocktails, overhearing at 
times, between their own conversation, other 
similar utterances like from the Senator of 
Colorado. Sentences beginning “ she used 
to,” or, “ she told me,” all anxious to declaim 
a speaking acquaintance with the famous 
country-woman, when they, both silent about 
their acquaintance with her, still knew her 
better than anybody else. 

In the evening, desirous of having a quiet 
smoke in Billy’s room, they dropped in at. a 
party of ladies, friends of Grant’s mother, 
who had besieged them at once with all sorts 
of questions about her — Jos6pha. 

Was she really as pretty off as on the 
stasrc ? Was the color of her hair natural? 
Whether they had ever seen her dressed in 
red, such red as was claimed no other woman 
with red hair could wear and look well in? 
And had they ever met the Due de Mont- 
pierre ? What sort of a man was he ? Did 
she love him? Were they acquainted with 


V 


Josdpha, 


15 ^ 

Mr. Frederic S. Earnest of Chicago ? Was he 
not the same that Mrs. Van Brunt-Riner had 
been reported engaged to ? A man of about 
fifty years or so, with white hair and a ruddy 
complexion, nice-looking, but, oh, so fast? 
The same, indeed! His relatives would 
surely contest the will, or had he none? 

Thus from that very day on, all conversa- 
tion seemed to center around one thing only. 

There was no topic more interesting. 
Already there were “Jos^pha cigars,” and 
“Jos^pha bonnets,” and“Josepha reds, in 
fact-, her name entered into the different 
avenues of commerce. 

And then this same center of attraction 
had descended one day from the steamer of 
the transatlantic company with her duenna 
and the parrot and in short the whole retinue 
of a prima donna such as she. 

But Billy Grant, possessing, like many of 
us, mes confreres, the pardonable pride we 
take in being friends of actresses, had thought 
this a very good occasion to let the public 
know, in what degree of friendship he stood 


152 Josipha. 

with this world-famous, beautiful singer. 
And so he had brought his fine carriage and 
an immense bouquet of American Beauties. 

How his vanity had been tickled beyond 
expression, when later, between two rows of 
eagerly pressing, pushing, handkerchief-wav- 
ing, viva-crying humanity he had walked 
do\\m the plank, leading the bowing Jos6pha. 
on his arm, down to his carriage. 

Abbott, Stoll, and Stiefel had willingly taken 
a back number over the infigurably sensa- 
tional effect of this entrance of their new ac- 
quisition into New York, on the arm of one 
of the bluest-blooded ‘'400.” So, what else 
could they do but thank him effusively when 
he had introduced them to Jos6pha ? 

Thus the lady in the coquettish French 
widow’s garb, with her tiny cap and flowing 
veil, looking prettier than ever, happier very 
likely because no creditors molested her any 
longer, had stepped into his carriage stand- 
ing erect for a while and waving her handker- 
chief in recognition of the splendid reception. 

And Grant, who had always loved Josepha^ 


V 


Josdpha, 153 

in a way which she had tried to make the 
other love her, felt his heart beat louder with 
happiness as he sat down beside her svelt, 
black figure, thinking of future possibilities, 
guilty little tete-a-tete’s, when already he 
was to be reminded of the fact that another 
still occupied the singer’s heart entirely. 

‘‘How is Clarence? Have you seen him 
lately T 

This then was all the result of his troubles 
and kindness. What disenchantment? 

How it happened he did not know, but at 
that moment he hated Clarence. He forgot 
their long friendship, and said, with a nasty 
sneer i 

“ With his mistress, parbleu, you surely did 
not expect to find him the same as at Paris ! 

Here, however, he checked himself rudely, 
wishing he could retract the few angry 
words, so little, so petty did he feel over 

them. 1 u j 

But it was already too late. Jos^pha had 
caught the word “ mistress ” and snickered 
at the apparent show of Billy’s jealousy, and 


154 


Josdpha. 

at the turn things had taken in the life of 
Clarence. She surely had not expected to 
find him the same old Clarence she had 
known so well in Paris, but ere this it had 
really been utterly unknown to her what kind 
of a life he had been leading after his return 
to New York. 

It even pleased her to think that at last he 
must be taking life as it comes, with its bless- 
ings and sorrows and little crimes. 

Thus ignoring the evident jealousy of the 
speaker, she only said : 

“ He must have changed, indeed,” while in 
her mind she added, “ I shall possess him 
yet !” 

So, in his own carriage, suffering the hu- 
miliation of having his good-looking self set 
in the shade behind another who was, God 
knows where, he felt still more humiliated 
over the fact that his spiteful little tell-tale 
had had after all only the effect of putting 
Jos6pha into much better spirits even than 
she had been, while he could not deny in his 
own honesty that he had hoped for a possible 


155 


Jos dp ha. 

change of feelings on Josepha’s part towards 
Clarence, and had meant to profit by it for 
the furtherance of his own projects for the 
future. 

He was glad, too, that his words had not 
had the desired effect on the singer. For 
how much he might have turned traitor to 
his friend, with only a little encouragement 
on her part, God only knows! 

Therefore, he made a vow to himself that 
at the next opportunity offering itself, he 
would clear his guilty conscience before 
Clarence by a confession of all, 


Jo sip ha. 


15^ 


IX. 

At the Waldorf were Jos6pha had taken 
quarters, the doors of her apartments did 
not shut forever behind her, like they had 
behind most of the singing nightingales who, 
in most cases, would emerge from their 
retreat just long enough to give their per- 
formance, then go back to their seclusion. 

Only an hour after her arrival, her mag- 
netic presence was already felt everywhere, 
for the manager had been graciously asked 
to show her all the true American institu- 
tions of which she had heard so much in 
Paris, the barber-shop, the boot-blacking- 
stand, even the bar-room. 

She flitted around, all over the house in 
her peculiarly pleasing way, riding more 
than once up and down in the elevators like 
a sportive child. 

When she returned to her room her 


157 


Josipha. 

duenna had to “ take in ” all the discoveries 
of her voyage autour de V hotel ” as she 
called it. 

Later on she amused herself with her 
parrot, listening to his “Clawrence” and 

Jos^pha ” and thinking all the time of the 
change in Clarence’s nature, how at last he 
would be to her a lover such as she wanted, 
accepting her love without question, return- 
ing it with his own. Only no more in that 
saint, venerable, reverencing old way of his, 
but a new one, more human, more wordly. 
She felt so sure of that ! 

And then again she busied herself by look- 
ing up her ‘‘Chateau Earnesthorst ” on the 
Hudson and “ Chicago,” which her duenna 
pronounced Shi-ca-go, putting the accent on 
the first syllable, on several of the railroad 
folders which she had gotten from the rack 
in the lobby. 

Then in an open landau, for it was a bright 
sunny autumn day, dressed in a most fetch- 
ing “ robe de deuil,”the black of her widow’s 
cap coquettishly relieved by a tiny white 


158 Josdpha. 

ruffle of delicate veiling around the edge of 
the bonnet and tied under her chin in a large 
broad bow with flowing ends, she had laid, 
wrapped in the most costly furs, taking in 
the sights of New York on its typical 
throughfare. 

She made the driver point out to her the 
direction of Wall Street and wondered at the 
nakedness of the Metropolitan, where she was 
to sing, which, most likely, she had expected 
to be as much more magnificant than the 
Paris Opera House as her salary was larger. 

Still on her return to the hotel, she had 
charmed the various reporters by: ** And 
the Opera House, how beautiful, how well it 
must be to sing there. So large, before an 
audience of nothing but Americans, the only 
music-loving people in the world !” 

The day of Jos^pha’s first American ap- 
pearance, or rather at the hour of seven in 
the evening of that day, our two friends, both 
in their full dress suits, met perchance at the 
club. 


159 


Josdpha, 

They had not seen each other since the day 
before Jos^pha’s triumphal entrance into New 
York. 

Clarence read the full account of the event 
in the papers and could not help but feeling 
his jealousy aroused by the very prominent 
part his friend had played. 

‘‘ The famous singer then accepted the 
escort of Mr. William Grant, a personal 
friend, it appears, who drove her to the Wal- 
dorf in his own carriage.” He now greeted 
him, however, with the old accustomed cor- 
diality. 

But honest William Grant, bethinking him- 
self, at the sight of his friend, of the mean- 
ness of his words spoken to Jos^pha, now 
delivered his guilty conscience by a confes- 
sion of all he had done and even meant to do 
in his passion for the singer; so that they 
both became moved and abundant in their 
praises of friendship between man and man, 
so much more constant and reliable than 
love of fickle woman ! 

And they might have forgotten their in- 


r6o 


Jo sip ha, 

tentions to be present at the first representa- 
tion over these pretty effusions of sentiment 
and infusions of champagne, had they both 
not burned with eagerness to hear the divine 
Jos^pha. 

Thus, when they entered their box, or 
rather Clarence’s — for Billy had not remem- 
bered his promise to be present at his moth- 
er’s that evening, in a row below — their feet 
did not move as steady as they might have, 
and they almost overlooked the steps lead- 
ing down to the seats, stumbling, and caus- 
ing quite a stir in the motionless, fervent 
audience. 

This all in a crowd resenting the disturb- 
ance. For already into that grand silence 
there had waved the lamenting sweetness of 
violins, then the sonorous sound of trumpets, 
until, during the thunder of the full orches- 
tra, Jos^pha made her entrance with her fa- 
mous cry, “ cri d’angoisse ” which could be 
heard far above the roar of all the instru- 
ments, in the sublime aria : 

“Ne m’aimes-tu plus ami de mon enfance?” 


Josdpha. i6i 

Never, no never had she sung this wonder- 
ful aria with so much pathos, so much emo- 
tion as that evening. 

That wonderful cry of hers, and then the 
** ne m’aimes-tu plus,” with which she is try- 
ing to win back the affections of her recreant 
lover. 

Her unearthly beauty, the ivory-colored 
satin of her dress enhancing it beyond ex- 
pression. Costly lace, rippling down over 
her bare arms and bosom, and the loose 
square folds of the heavy material down her 
whole figure, revealing in their drooping, 
unfastened effect, still the sveltness of her 
willowy form. 

Ah, she had soon espied the one face 
amongst a thousand. His stooping profile 
had been revealed to her just at the same 
time, when she had uttered her “ Ne m’ 
aimes-tu plus” and when he was settling 
himself down into his chair. 

Even from under his rapt closed eyelashes 
she had felt the warmth of his passionate 
glances and the consciousness that in his 


1 62 JosdpJia. 

heart sne was still his- all, his very blood and 
only happiness. 

Thus she was not surprised when after this 
first performance there was handed to her 
his card. For even while her maid had 
braided up her beautiful hair and removed 
the paint from her cheeks, she showed signs 
of restlessness as if conscious of some one 
waiting. And she had urged her to more 
haste. 

And what emotions those that swept her 
soul when she held in her nervous hands the 
little slip of pasteboard ! 

What was her fame, what were her tri- 
umphs, so insignificant by their ease, com- 
pared to the struggles of subjugating under 
the yoke of her womanly power the stub- 
born will of this “one ” man. 

At last he was hers, hers soul and body ! 
She was to taste the infinitely sweet intoxi- 
cation of love through love ! 

So when they stood before each other in 
the darkness of stage scenery; later on when 
they rolled together in her carriage towards 




Josdpha. 163 

her apartments, over the quiet streets of the 
city, they asked no questions, made no ex- 
cuses for the past, but took the present as 
fate’s sweetest gfft. 

In the narrow office-street again there 
would be a woman waiting in the new landau 
below, when the footman had announced his 
‘‘ The carriage is waiting below, sir,” and 
Clarence descended in the elevator. 

A W’oman much like the other, with red 
hair, but more beautiful even, more queenly ! 
A woman whose name would be known to 
every passer-by, many of whom would stop 
and chat with her, making remarks like : 

“ Your Marguerite last night was charm- 
ing,” or Can you not find a better Romeo 
than Signor Bertini for your exquisite 
Juliet.” 

This woman’s eyes would kindle with a 
sudden fire when a man’s tall figure would 
appear under the portal of the building soon 
to be seated by her side. 

Her beautiful red hair would gleam like 
the other’s until the landau had turned 


164 


Josdpha, 

around the corner into Broadway. And they 
would pass the club, many envious glances 
being cast behind their moving carriage and 
many exclamations made, such as “ lucky 
devil, this Clarence Willard,” on their way to 
their establishment. 

The man’s face would bear a happier ex- 
pression even than when seen with the other 
one. For Jos^pha was just as docile and 
pleasant as she, but more loving and of a 
mind so desirous of knowledge, that his busi- 
ness, speculating on the exchange, the price 
of oil, the forming of a corner in the market, 
his club life, in short, all would seem to her 
an interesting subject to talk about. 

They were together on all occasions, in all 
sorts of places. 

More often at the hour of six in the evea 
ing when New York’s grand army of labor, 
ing men and women are returning home over 
the famous Brooklyn bridge in an unbroken 
stream of pedestrians, wagons, carriages, etc., 
there could be seen at the entrance below 
the magnificent turnout of the oil magnate 


Jos dp ha, 165 

with the two liveried .figures of coach and 
footman on the seat, as rigid as if molded 
of metal, the panting span of black steeds 
waiting impatiently, while Jos6pha and their 
master would be on the bridge above observ- 
ing with rapt attention the life on the river 
and the come and go” of working humanity, 
the endless stream of vehicles, trucks, wagons, 
carriages. A scene which she said recalled 
to her in the famous painting Le fin du jour” 
(A day’s end), with its setting winter’s sun 
and the pulsation of city life after vesper. A 
picture so characteristic of America, where 
everybody works, rich or poor. 

Still, at times, there had come moments of 
annoyance to the man, whenever letters writ- 
ten in a feminine hand, and bearing the stamp 
of an obscure country town arrived. 

“ Had he so soon forgotten her whom he 
had once professed to love? Was he indeed 
enamored of that new opera singer, Jos^pha, 
like the papers reported from time to time? 
Would he never send for her any more? 
She promised that she would never cause 


1 66 Jos^pha, 

him another embarrassment such as she had 
done, no, never ! The little boy looked so 
much like him, she would place him with a 
family of brave, honest people when going 
back to New York, Not before. He was 
too sweet !” 

But even in this dilemma, Clarence Wil- 
lard had not been at a loss for a decision. 
With an ease, as though it was only a daily 
occurrence in his life, he had written: 

“ It was best that she should never come 
back to him. For the future of the boy he 
would provide. As to herself, he would put 
another $50,000 to her credit in the same bank 
where she already had a deposit ; it was a 
safe bank. Bitter as the draught might taste 
to her, it was nevertheless best for him to be 
frank. He had loved her indeed. Not for her- 
self, however, as he had thought at times, but 
for her resemblance to the other Josepha, who 
had come back. Yes, he loved that opera 
singer, and she must not harass him with pro- 
testations, for he felt their relations could 


167 


Jos^pha.^ 

never be the same as they had been ! Nay, 
he knew he could hate her as he now pitied 
her, if she would still insist to call back the 
past to him. He knew “love” he could 
never offer her any more. If she felt that he 
had not been generous enough, she should 
not hesitate to say so ; nor never hesitate, if 
in the future she should ever be in need of 
his help or advice, to address him. She was 
young yet, why not develop her voice so 
much like the famous singer’s, which had 
attracted him first of all to her.” 

This and other things he had written in his 
cool business way, just as if making quota- 
tions to a correspondent; not the least more 
excitement, no effort ! With this letter he 
had at the same time dispelled the matter 
from his mind, never to be disturbed again, 
for Mary Blake kept silent. 


JosSpha. 


1 68 


X. 

In a pretty cottage parlor in the obscure 
eastern village of which we have spoken, 
Mary Blake receives Clarence Willard’s 
letter with that kind of a feeling which we 
all experience on such occasions, especially 
when we know that the contents of an insig- 
nificant looking missive as the modern letter 
is, that important factor in to-day’s affairs, 
are to decide our fate, our happiness! 

True, by Clarence’s former cruelly cold 
lines, the young woman had already been de- 
prived of all hopes of ever gaining his affec- 
tions again. She had been treated by him 
like any other of the unfortunate, deceived 
women, paid off, yet in spite of all, she had 
been unwilling to accept this as a final deci- 
sion. She had been unwilling to admit to 
herself that such as her fate is really the un- 
avoidable end of every guilty love. 


Josdpha. 


169 


In pleading with him to win back his affec- 
tion, all her powers of persuasion have been 
mustered. She has spared him reproaches 
for being the cause of her misery. Her let- 
ters to him contained nothing but self-accu- 
sations, excuses for having been the object of 
so many troubles to him. 

What new emotions her soul has known 
since rupture, that chasm, has opened its 
yawning mouth between the two ! She 
shudders when she thinks of the sudden 
desire she has felt to stifle the quiet, healthy 
breathing of her slumbering babe, without 
the arrival of which her relations with her 
lover would have been the same to-day as 
they had been before. 

And of what amount of love her heart is 
capable she has also learned ; for its growth 
has been as formidable as the growth of 
obstacles rapid. 

At last she holds in her hand the fatal 
letter that is to put the seal on her destiny ! 
At last? God knows, the uncertainty, the 
waiting has been pleasanter, for she feels a 


JosdpJia. 


1 70 

foreboding of evil and cannot muster enough 
courage to open it, so much her hands 
tremble. 

What must not a weak woman suffer who 
has no rights to demand, nor will avail herself 
of the rights the law gives her, if she really 
loves. No right to demand a reparation, 
just because her love has not the permission 
given to it by some insignificant, mocking 
ceremony we call law, but is as pure, as sacred, 
nay, more so, perhaps, than some young wife 
— some young mother’s. True, her commer- 
cial little soul with its desire for wealth, 
money and pleasure, had made her fall an 
easier victim to the amorous wiles of Clar- 
ence Willard ; but are there not as many and 
more marriages contracted for these very 
reasons ? She, the ostracised of society, she, 
who had to hide her mistake in this obscure 
eastern village, had brought into her liaison 
with Clarence, love and faithfulness. How 
much of that do- we find to-day under the 
mockery of orange blossoms and bridal veils? 
How much sincerity to keep the vows of 


JosSpha, 


171 

eternal faithfulness, when a young, budding 
maiden sells her soul to a man with money. 

It is the relations of free love that are con- 
demned by humanity. And yet they are 
more true, as a rule, than the sacred ties which 
one is too advanced to worry much about and 
therefore transgresses without any scruple. 

Once, indeed, the young woman makes a 
resolute attempt, sticking her knife boldly 
under the back of the letter. But again she 
falters and bends despairingly over the cradle, 
whimpering softly on the little cherub’s face. 

And thus, between her desire to know the 
contents of that letter, and the fear to find 
her foreboding of evil fulfilled, the first few 
shadows of twilight begin to descend gradu- 
ally on the quiet street, while suddenly, in 
the Catholic Church across the way, some- 
body strikes up on the organ, in full notes, the 
same quaint old melody that she was hum- 
ming in the office on Wall Street thabfateful 
day Clarence Willard spoke to her the first 
time. That same old melody which had clung 
to her as long as she could remember, which 


1 72 Josipha. 

seems to form some tie between herself and 
her first unknown childhood in her father s 
house, before she was adopted by the Blakes. 

It always had a soothing effect upon her, 
like the effect a cradle-song has on a restless 
child. Perhaps it was once her own cradle- 
song ! At any rate it gives her an idea now, 
for she leaves the room returning with a 
heavy shawl around her shoulders. 

With the greatest care she picks up the 
little bundle of humanity, bedding its head 
against her young bosom, then she is seen 
across the street entering the half open 
portals of the church, where no other soul 
stirs safe the priest before the organ. 

A little later the last rays of the winter 
sun surround with an aureole Mary's red 
hair. She has taken a seat on one of the 
crudely put up benches, having laid her 
sleeping child beside her. 

And so, while the same old melody, she 
knows so well, is floating through the sacred 
stillness of the edifice, the young woman 
braces up her entire courage under fervent 


V 


Josipha, 


173 


prayers. She opens the letter under the 
quaint accompaniment of the song that has 
ushered her into peaceful sleep, so many, 
many years ago, and reads it. 

Irony of fate that it must be this same old 
cradle-song that peals forth on her ear at the 
moment when she is to receive the crudest 
blow which can be dealt a woman by a man 
in whom she has confided so implicitly ? Is it 
this melody perhaps that makes her seek sleep, 
eternal sleep, complete oblivion of all earthly 
troubles, a few weeks later, as we will see? 

There is a loud cry, the playing stops 
abruptly and the priest turns around on his 
stool looking down on the cause of the dis- 
turbance. He had been absolutely ignorant 
of the presence of the young woman. For 
while his fingers enticed forth from the ivory 
keys the simple notes ; his mind has wan- 
dered back also, like Mary’s, back into the 
past, with the difference, however, of his full 
recollection of all those scenes with which the 
song is associated in his memory. He goes 
back many, many years to the front porch of 


1 74 Jos^phd* 

a pretty cottage, holding a girl on his knees, 
another one standing beside him ; both girls 
singing the quaint lullaby. 

Just then he hears the cry, turns around 
and looks down on a livid face bent back 
over the back of the bench. At the same 
time the child which he beholds next to her 
begins to cry. 

In a few long leaps he is down the steps 
and by the side of the fainting woman. 
Without another moment’s thought he gath- 
ers up her lifeless form in one arm, with the 
other the wailing child, and with this human 
freight retires to his residence which adjoins 
the church. 

It needs but the sprinkling of a little fresh 
water on the woman’s face to restore her to 
conciousness. Yet short as the time is to 
do this, the priest has staggered under the 
light of his study, at the sight of her features. 

“My God! can it be possible?” he mur- 
murs. But already her eyes have opened, 
looking around in bewilderment, not realiz- 
ing what has happened, and as of one just 
awakening from an unpleasant dream. 


V 


Josdpha, 


175 


“Where am I?” she says. “Where is my 
child and then remembering, no doubt, the 
contents of the fatal letter, she begins to sob 
anew, ever and again kissing the child which 
the priest had handed to her. 

“ Don’t cry,” the priest’s kind voice whis- 
pers. He has turned down the light and the 
room is almost dark. “ Confide in me, my 
daughter; confide in me, my child, for life is 
full of sorrows; but sorrows shared by 
others, do not seem half so burdensome to 
bear.” 

There issomething in his voice that soothes 
her, a tone of such deep consoling power, a 
new accent which she has never heard before 
in the priest’s voice, although she has been to 
service every Sunday. There is something 
in his eyes too, an expression of so much suf- 
fering, of that purification, which suffering 
gives to these mirrors of man’s soul. 

His arm is around her shoulder supporting 
her ; it gives her such comfort, she does not 
know why. And again his voice pleads: 

“Confide in me, my daughter, the cross is 


176 


Josdpha, 


heavy but penitence lightens the burden. 
Confide in me as your priest whose lips will 
be sealed as though it had been an auricular 
confession. I speak to you as one friend, one 
sinner, one sufferer to another. As a strong 
man who has almost broken down under the 
load of his own guilt, to a frail woman whom 
he wishes to assist carrying hers. But if it 
will harass you to tell me your troubles, or if 
it should cause you more pain to do so, calm 
yourself my child, and say no more to-day ; 
but let me pray for you and comfort your 
soul as much as it is in my power to do. 
And let me lay my hands on your throbbing 
temples for it may restore order to your dis- 
turbed nerves. Or, if it will quiet you more 
to pillow your head on my breast, like you 
would on your father’s if he were present, do 
so without hesitation, my daughter, for I am 
an old man, old before my time, with one 
foot in my grave, and the follies of youth lie 
far away in the dim past !” 

His voice then raises itself in a fervent 
prayer as he pulls her down on her knees. 




Josipha, 


177 


The darkness of the room, the accents of 
truthfulness in the man’s prayer, his very 
words indicating that he has read her soul, 
have their effect on the woman. 

Already her head has sunk on the stranger’s 
breast; her lips repeat in murmur his solemn 
prayer. And presently the scene is reversed, 
when she herself takes up the thread of his 
silenced pleading by an ardent supplication 
to her Maker which the priest repeats. 

I have sinned, oh Heavenly Father : My 
soul craved for wealth, station and those 
many things of the world Thou teachest us 
to despise, but which our human hearts are 
yearning for more than the glories of Thy 
kingdom. In the dust I kneel before Thee, 
pleading for Thy fatherly pardon. Thou 
who readest our hearts knowest the plea I 
wish to offer for my fall, my love for the 
man, though 1 do not deny the part his 
earthly possessions have played to allure me 
into his arms’ to my own ruin. Thou know- 
est, too, oh God, I bear this man, who has 
abandoned me for another, no malice, and if 


178 Josdpha, 

I lay before Thee questioning Thy justice, 
because Thou makest me suffer, me and the 
innocent babe, while he is permitted to go 
on in his sinfulness, as though man were 
exempt from all pangs of conscience; my 
Father, it is because it is hard to say I for- 
give, without Thou fillest our hearts with the 
power to do so ; for our mind is willing but 
the flesh is weak !” 

“ The old, old story,” the priest murmurs, 
“ human fickleness the cause of so much suf- 
fering !” but starting up from his short med- 
itative soliloquy, he remarks to the woman, 
“there is a God in Heaven, there is a law in 

the world compelling those that ” He 

gets no further, for the woman’s voice inter- 
rupts him. 

“ Law ? Do you speak of the law man 
makes ; that law we discarded in loving each 
other as we did, he and I? Do you speak 
of the law that allows you a certain monetary 
consideration for a lifelong misery? Ah, 
but you know not a woman’s love, you know 
not the power it gives a woman to even bless 


Josipha, 179 

the man to whose wrongs she owes all her 
sorrows. This is the power I crave, this the 
feeling I beg God to bestow upon my heart. 

1 have tasted the sweet bliss of happiness, for 
the sake of that short blessing I must gain 
the power to forgive him.” 

In the presence of this conviction what 
can the priest do but to pray with her, pray 
for the strength that she beseeches from the 
Almighty. 

But even while he is muttering her words, 
even while his hands are busy gently strok- 
ing the outlines of her features, the burning 
balls in her orbits, his thoughts have wan- 
dered back many years and he thinks how 
much like her she looks, how her age must be 
the same as that of the one still missing, the 
other’s sister whom he has found within the 
past year even. 

Still, when a little later he escorts the 
young woman back to her quarters across 
the street, telling her to return the following 
day and to talk it all over with him ; his 
placid face does not betray what tumults this 
scene has aroused in his soul. 


I So Josdpha. 

Only when the door is closed behind the 
young* mother and her child ; only when he 
has entered his church, the mask drops, his 
features look drawn as if in pain. 

As he goes down the aisle, his feet touch a 
piece of paper lying on the floor. 

He stoops down to pick it up mechanically, 
without thinking. And although it is too 
dark to see, yet the creases where it had been 
folded and the way it had been folded, 
leaves no doubt in his mind of it being a let- 
ter dropped by the fainting woman, just an 
hour or so ago. 

When he reaches his study where the 
lamp is still burning dimly, his giant frame 
drops into an easy chair and his mind sinks 
into a profound meditation. 

The episode with the young woman, or 
rather sometliing in her personality have re- 
vived some of the saddest years in this man’s 
history. Sadder now, when, stripped of 
their allurements and embellishments of 
youth, beauty and passion ; deprived of all 
possible excuses of human weaknesses, they 


V 


Josdpha, 1 8 1 

stand naked before the penitent eye of this 
inexorably severe old priest near the gate of 
his death, as it were. 

Father Bryan is indeed a strange char- 
acter, a very devout Catholic. 

He has only come to the village five years 
ago ; but why he had accepted this rather in- 
significant post, in a place so far off the trend 
of travel ; why he had given the preference 
to this obscure village over a much wealthier 
diocese in one of the Atlantic seaport towns, 
which had been offered to him, nobody knew, 
for Father Bryan is not a communicative 
man, although eloquent in his sermons and 
universally kind to everybody. 

And so as he sits down, groaning aloud 
‘‘ What a life of sorrow and misery this is,’' 
we follow him in his meditation to places 
that you and I have visited together at the 
beginning of this story ; into that parsonage 
in the beautiful city of the plains. 

Father Bryan indeed is no other than Ed- 
ward Drayton. The orthodox Catholic 
priest, no other than the broad-minded Pres- 


i 82 


Josdpha, 


byterian preacher, who horrified his congre- 
gation one day by mysteriously disappearing 
with a wealthy widow, years ago, in the city 
at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. 

Has he been happy ? 

Who is so, mon ami, when one’s desires 
have been gratified; when the mists of 
human passions have been cleared away from 
our brain, leaving it clear to judge our ac- 
tions, clear to take in the situation. If our 
brain were not so susceptible to respond to 
all the emotions of our nerves, there would 
be less crimes, less murders, less adultery ; 
in short, less rash deeds to-day ! 

Has he been contented? 

Who indeed is so when he possesses that 
which to steal has seemed so much pleas- 
ure ! 

And the remorse, the regrets, the mortifica- 
tions and self-accusations, when a few days 
after his arrival with Mrs. Cobourne, in the 
city of the Pacific slope the : 


DRAYTON-COBOURNE SCANDAL! 


Josdpha, 183 

heads a newspaper column in heavy print, 
publishing his elopement and the death of 
his invalid wife! For Edward Drayton has 
a conscience ; it had only been stifled by 
human passion. 

Decidedly the lover, the Reverend Edward 
Drayton, has been quite a different man from 
the morose companion he becomes as time 
steals on ; as both, having tasted the full sati- 
ety of their expectations, which, after all, had 
been nothing but disappointments, tired of 
their relations. 

No wonder then that one day the eternal 
love and friendship they have sworn to each 
other, suffers the death blow of a sudden rup- 
ture which sends the two actors into two 
opposite directions. < 

The woman over to Europe, the man to 
the wilderness of Montana, or some other 
western state, where he .emerges under the 
new identity of Mr. Edward Bryan, a man 
applying for admission into the Catholic 
faith. 

He had no trouble in gaining admission. 


184 Josdpha, 

although he was just a stranger, an educated 
man apparently, about whose past only this 
much is known : That he has been a member 
of some Presbyterian church before, but now 
wishes to be taken into the fold of that of the 
Catholic religion.” 

And what church would not feel equally 
elated over the conversion of any member of 
another belief, not its own ; of an educated 
man capable of thought? What church 
would not willingly open its doors to the one 
knocking who stammers as he enters through 
the portals “ I have sought for truth, I have 
not found it where I come from, but I feel 
sure that I shall discover it here.” 

And so it must not surprise us too much, 
when we meet this man again far away from 
the scene of his former actions, in an obscure 
eastern village, a good ways off the usual 
trend of travel, as Father Bryan, a devout 
Catholic priest, a silent middle-aged man, 
prematurely aged by troubles which he hides, 
however, under his assumed new role. 

But he has kept himself informed about 




i85 


Josdpha, 

the turn things have taken in the parsonage 
after his wife’s death. He had known of the 
adoption of Mary by the Blakes, although he 
has lost track of her entirely after the re- 
moval of the Blakes from D . He had 

lost sight of Elsa, the elder, a few years after 
her arrival in Paris, until one day the whole 
American press had heralded over this broad 
land of ours the coming of a new American 
singer, the great Jos6pha, giving her biogra- 
phy with the minutest details; the name of 
her father, the name he once bore, Edward 
Drayton. 

Thus he had found the older, but Mary 
was still missing. 

And now, as somebody enters the study, an 
old woman-servant, saying, “My, how the 
lamp smells,” and turns up the wick, the light 
inundates the study for our inspection. We 
behold the priest, the kind eyes, the giant- 
framed body, all changed, so much older, 
until recognition is almost impossible. And 
we notice on the wall over his desk a picture 
of Jos^pha representing her as Marguerite. 


1 86 Josdphd, 

One of those photographs we saw displayed 
in the stores on Broadway, the day it was 
rumored that she would appear at the Metro- 
politan Opera House during the coming 
season. 

And while we proceed with our examina- 
tion, Father Bryan has risen, still holding the 
sheet of paper that he picked up in the church 
and gazes at the singer’s picture. 

‘‘ How much this poor woman resembles 
her ! So young, too, just about the same age 
Mary would be, and even her hair of the 
same hue as hers!” He does not proceed in 
his verbal meditation, a slight tremble shakes 
his frame, his hand touches his brow, as 
though a thought had struck him, and again 
he reels back into his chair. 

And then, while staring before him and 
pondering while mumbling the name of her 
he is thinking of, Mary Blake, and playing 
with the sheet which he has mechanically 
folded up and opened in turns; his eyes fall 
on the very name he has just pronounced. 
The letter is addressed to Mrs, Mary Blake. 


V 


Jos^pha. 


187 


“ Oh God, hast Thou no mercy, hast Thou 
not punished me enough by denying me the 
right to claim the one found child? Must I 
swallow the very dregs of this bitter cup by 
discovering the younger disgraced, her 
young life blighted ?” he murmurs as he 
continues reading the letter which dropped 
from Mary’s hands when she fainted. 

Fate knows no mercy, indeed ! 

He has reached the part where Clarence 
Willard admits and confesses to Mary his 
love for the singer ; where he advises her to 
take up music because her voice is so much 
like the other’s; where he tells her that it 
was this very voice that first attracted his 
attention to her. 

There is an occasional groan, a groan 
which could be taken for an expression of 
physical pain as well as psychical, for this 
man has been so accustomed to hiding his 
emotions all these years past, that his face 
has again adopted the usual placid look. 

When he sits down to supper with this 
additional burden on his already overloaded 


1 88 


Josdpha. 


guilt}'' conscience, his composure is the same 
as ever, although he does not partake of 
food. 

Nor does he sleep that night. Before his 
eyes there rises again and again the face of 
the pale woman, his daughter, he has held 
in his arms some hours ago ; and the other 
face, also, that of a daughter whom, however, 
he has only seen in the picture. 

Shall he make himself known to Mary ? 
Shall he tell her: “I am your father ; I left 
your mother ; I left you. Had I notdeserted 
you, your young life might not have been 
blighted as it is now ! You might have been 
to-day some man’s happy wife and not the 
mother of your nameless child!” Shall he 
tell her all that or keep silent, comfort her, 
aid her as much as it is in his power to do ? 

Surely, as to himself, how gladly he would 
shake off his mantle of hypocrisy, how wilL 
ingly he would humble himself before her. 
But it might only complicate matters, it might 
prove a fatal blow to the chagrined mother I 
And so he adopts the course of silence as the 


\ 


189 


Josdpha. 

best, and racks his brain over for all the words 
of comfort he will speak to her in the morn- 
ing. 

But Fate says no. 

In the morning when Father Bryan in- 
quires for the lady in the cottage across the 
street, he is informed that she has suddenly 
decided to go back to New York, and in fact 
has taken last night’s train^ 


Josipha, 


190 


XI. 

At a very late nour of the night, the dark- 
ness of one of the side streets of New York 
was suddenly interrupted by a stream of 
light, caused by the equally sudden opening 
of a front door. 

In this narrow, luminous path, which 
stretched wellnigh across to the opposite 
side, there could be seen a tall figure of a 
woman moving into the very middle of the 
street, from where she scanned it with ques- 
tioning glances in either direction, as far, in 
fact, as the darkness allowed her to do. 

There was in her nervous restlessness, the 
' excited twitching of her lingers, something 
that indicated either a state of great worry 
and pain or even a mind void of lucidity. 

But even while she was pondering in her 
mind what to do in the face of these silent 


\ 


JosdpJia. 


191 

nocturnal sleeping shadows of man’s abode ; 
the stillness of the street re-echoed from the 
thunder of approaching wheels and the clack- 
clack from horses’ hoofs. 

With the exclamation “God be thanked,” 
the form advanced still farther into the street, 
calling aloud, in an excited voice, something 
that sounded like “ help,” at the same time 
waving her long arms around her in the air. 

However, her movements must have been 
watched for some time from the distance, and 
some conclusion arrived at between driver 
and master as to the object of her excitement. 
For hardly had the shying team been brought 
toa standstill, when a man’s tall form emerged 
from the carriage, while the window of the 
closed door was lowered by a person on the 
inside just long enough to overhear the ex- 
cited talk ; perhaps, also, to find out how long 
the carriage was to be detained. 

It could be seen now, since the tall figure 
was bathed in the stream of light emitted 
from the open door and the carriage lanterns, 
that she was a woman of some forty years, 


192 


Jos^pha, 


and her station that of a servant. That she 
was perfectly lucid but frantic with horror 
and anxiety her story showed, which she gave 
out of breath in words tumbling over each 
other 

“ Her beautiful mistress had made an at- 
tempt on her own and her child’s life, a suc- 
cessful one she feared, unless it was not too 
late to save her at least. For the child there 
was no hope, it had been cold already when, 
awakened in the middle of the night by a 
strong smell of gas, she had hurried down, 
fearing that something was wrong. For her 
mistress, always so depressed in mind and so 
despondent of late, had been more so that 
day, so queer, insisting that she should sleep 
upstairs and leave her alone. Ah, why had 
she not thought that it had been done only 
for this, why had she not slept below in spite 
of all? Her beautiful mistress, so young, 
possessing apparently all the money and 
everything that she wanted. Her poor, poor 
mistress, but God be thanked, it might still 
not be too late,” 


V 


193 


Josdpha. 

And with these words she had preceded 
the man into the hall, where the great cur- 
rent of air from all the open windows and 
doors blew in chilly gusts, making the gas 
flare up in the most fantastic shapes. 

This man was Clarence, on his way home 
with his guilty love, coming from Del- 
monico’s. The other person in the carriage, 
waiting outside, Jos^pha. 

Little had he thought, a few hours ago, 
when sitting down with Jos^pha to supper at 
the famous caterer’s, as they so often did after 
the play, especially when Jos^pha had sung. 
Jos^pha and he basking themselves in the 
sunshine of each other’s happy, contented 
smiles ; making plans about the future ; little, 
I say, had he thought that this future would 
have in store for him, preparing it even at 
the same time when he was so free from 
cares, so blessedly happy with his guilty 
love, one of the saddest trials of his life. 

Even while he followed the woman, a feel- 
ing permeated his whole body as of some 
departed known spirit hovering around him. 


194 


Josdpha. 


When he entered the room he at once 
understood the peculiar sensation. 

He did not utter a cry, he only sank down 
with the weight of his guilt before the bed. 
For there — there, in the fulness of youth, she 
whom he had loved for her resemblance to 
Jos6pha, dead ! Dead also the fat little baby 
boy, his child ! What emotions must have 
stormed through the man’s heart at that 
moment. What self-reproaches, what accusa- 
tions at the sight of his victims. 

The thought of saving life, if such was pos- 
sible, had been forgotten by man and woman 
alike. For, overwhelmed, he had sunk down 
heavily on his knees over the small white 
hand hanging out from the costly laces of 
the nightdress ; while the woman, surprised 
at first, but instantly comprehending that she 
was witnessing the finale ” of some great 
human drama, crouched down in a corner 
whimpering softly. Thinking how much 
better off after all her mistress was ‘‘dead ” 
than “alive,” with another one in her way; 
the other, whose diamonds she had seen 
glittering in the darkness of the carriage ! 


195 


However, life had already fled long before 
the two bodies were discovered by the 
woman. The smaller one, of course, had 
stiffened quicker than its mother’s. The gas 
had indeed produced the long sleep of obliv- 
ion from which there is no awakening. All 
efforts to restore them to consciousness 
would have been in vain. 

But out in the cold winter night, where the 
spirited horses were stamping the ground 
impatiently, Jos^pha, in the recess of her 
carriage, wrapped in costly furs, was wonder- 
ing what had happened. When, after hearing 
the woman’s story, she had pulled up the car- 
riage window and huddled herself well back 
into her corner ; her thoughts took up the 
thread of her late conversation witli Clarence, 
at that point where they had planned a trip 
on his fine yaclit into southern waters. South 
Carolina, in- fact, more particularly Charles- 
ton, his native city. 

Yet, pleasant as the thoughts were, sud- 
denly she had become conscious of the cold 
and begun to wonder why neither one of the 


196 


Josipha, 


two had returned to let her know the par- 
ticulars about the case! 

“ If there is hope for restoration to life/' 
she reasoned, “ one or the other should' have 
come back for help, for a doctor, long ago. 
And if recovery is out of the question, why 
does he stay so long with a dead woman he 
not even knows ?’' 

So, after directing many anxious glances 
into the still open, quiet hall, she; too, had 
stepped out, shivering as she did in the icy 
current of air. 

And presently she stood in the open door 
of a richly furnished bedroom, before a scene 
of infinite sadness. 

She had looked down wonderingly — star- 
tled — on the counterpart of herself; this 
woman in the bloom of youth, her infant boy 
clutched to her bare breast, and the con- 
vulsed figure of Clarence crouched before 
the bed, And she had taken in the whole 
situation in a glance, all ! And did this 
scene arouse in her a fit of anger, jealousy 
and wrath ? did she have recourse even to 




V 


Jo sip ha, 197 

other thoughts than those of pity, of com- 
miseration ? 

Respecting the sacredness of the scene, 
she hoped to recede noiselessly as she had 
come, back to her carriage, where she in- 
tended to wait; when suddenly the rustle of 
her silken skirts became noticeable at one 
and the same time to both the stooping fig- 
ures — man and woman. 

With a groan Clarence had raised himself 
up from the floor, an agonized, terrified look 
on his pale face. He expected a sneer, a 
word of scorn, in fact, anything else sooner 
than the sympathizing little “ Poor Clar- 
ence !” and ‘‘Oh, how very sad!” for he felt 
so guilty, so criminal, and he perceived at 
once that Jos6pha had guessed all. 

And so, taking her outstretched little hand 
in his with a thankful fervent grip, he stam- 
mered something about the “ draught,” and 
“ It being no place for her.” Then, after 
whispering a few words into the woman’s ear 
he led Jos^pha to the carriage, which soon 
rolled away. 


198 


Josdpha, 


And the silence upon which they both had 
entered, was only broken once, when Clarence 
began to relieve, by confession, his guilt-smit- 
ten conscience. 

However, even from this painful task he 
was to be saved by Jos^pha’s kind, “ Don’t 
excite yourself, Pauvre ami, I know all! 
You owe me no explanation, but the poor 
' girl, you owe her much ; indeed, we must both 
look after her funeral in the morning.” 

With that she had clung still closer, and 
her sweet caressing ways had soothed him 
wonderfully. 

Onl}^ at an early morning hour, slumber 
approached Jos^pha’s couch. 

Not that she suffered from self-reproach of 
having been in some way the cause of the 
traged}'. On the contrary, her conscience 
felt exceptionally clear, if we will admit that 
she still possessed one. 

Although her thoughts had wandered back 
once more to the suicide’s bed, it was not so 
much the sadness of the scene that drew her 
there again, as the remarkable resemblance 
the woman bore to her. 


Josdpha. t gg 

That the dead one was the same to whom 
Billy Grant had referred as “ his mistress 
about that there existed no doubt in her mind. 
It showed her again what power she really 
possessed over the destiny of Clarence; how 
indeed, even in his other amours ” he had 
looked for one like her, or had been forced 
to love the other, because she looked like 
herself. 

About this singular resemblance she pon- 
dered no more in any other direction, into 
which the fact might have taken her that she 
once possessed a sister. 

The day of the woman’s funeral, Jos6pha 
surprised Clarence by appearing once again 
in her pretty “ robe de deuil,” which she had 
discarded some time ago. 

She had shown much delicacy in the 
whole sad affair, which indeed had revealed 
to him still another side of her strange na- 
ture. 

And thus they had followed the elegant 
hearse, together, sad and silent. Jos^pha 
feeling a closer affinity towards her lover 


200 


Josdpha. 

since the woman’s death, an affinity of guilt, 
of crime, as it were. Clarence recalling in his 
mind, the scene when he had stood between 
his two guilty loves ; one dead, the other full 
of life, so frivolous, so strange with all her 
questionable past ; and yet so kind, so sweet ! 

To enter into his intimate relations with 
the singer had cost him no effort, his views 
of life having changed entirely. To speak of 
marriage to her, although there were no ob- 
stacles in the way then, he had never thought 
about any more. 

But there, before that small mound of 
earth, so silent, yet so full of meaning, the 
smothering sparks of his slumbering con- 
science had suddenly caught fire again. 

The vow of giving the sanction of the law 
to his guilty union with Jos6pha was typical 
of the old Clarence we met a few years ago 
in Paris. 

And so, when right after the close of the 
opera season, the oil magnate’s fine yacht was 
steaming out of New York harbor, on the 
planned southern trip, it bore to the old 


201 


Josipha, 

southern city a very happy couple, Mr. and 
Mrs. Clarence F. Willard. 

But had Jos^pha, on the eventful night, or 
even the following day, perceived a small flat 
package, tied with a narrow silken ribbon 
and well hidden between the bodies of 
mother and child ; had she untied this same 
bundle which had been laid into the woman’s 
coffin by her side, she would have beheld the 
faces of two to whom she and the dead one 
owed their existence. They were sisters. 


THE END. 



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The Rifle Rangers i cq 

I'he War Trail i 30 

The Wood Rangers ... i eo 

The Wild Huntress 30 

The Maroon i 30 

The Headless Horseman i 50 

The Rangers and Regulators i 50 


A. S. ROE’S NOVELS. 


To Love and Be Loved 50 

'lime and Tide i 30 

Woman Our Angel i 

Looking Around i Tq 

TheC'jud on, the Heart i 50 

Resolution 


50 


50 


REID’S WORKS. 

1 he White Chief 

The Tiger Huiuer 30 

The Hunter’s Feast 1 co 

Wild Life III 

Osceola, the Seminole 1 30 

The White Gauntlet i ra 

Lo>t Leonore ... i so 

Th H hand-books. 

Ihe Hab.cs Good Society — 1 he nice points of taste and good manners Si om 

1 he Art of Conversation — For those who wish to be agreeable talkers 

The Arts of Writing. Reading and Speaking-For Self-lmprovemenc . . ^ 

Carelton s Hand-Book of Popular Quotations 

1000 Legal Don ts — By Ingersoll Lockwood . ^ 5 ^ 

600 Medical Don’ts— By Ferd. C. Valentine, M.D 

On the Chafing Dish — By Harriet P. Bailey 

Pole on Whist 5 ® 

Draw Poker without a Master .'•'•••i!..!!!!*.!..!.!! *'! * 

POPULAR NOVELS, COMIC BOOKS, E^C.'’ 

The „„ 1 , complete edi.ioo J. i, 

Susan Fielding Do. Do ‘ ’ 

A Woman of Fashion Do. Do. .' . ! *!!!* .*.* 

Archie Lovell Do. Do. 

Imve (L’ Amour)— English Translation from Michelet’s famous French work 

vVoman (La Femme)-The Sequel to “ L’Amour.” dT Do 

withccxtcomiciiius-trations.::;;;;:; ; =» 
Beatrice Cenci— From the Italian... ‘ 50 

Children’s Fa.ry J 

All the books on this jist are handsomely printed and bound ir cloth ■'old 
everywhere, and by mail, postage free, on receipt of price by ‘ ® 

G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers, 

33 "West 23vi Street, K‘ew • k:. 


G. W. DILLINGHAM CO.’S. PUBLICATIONS. 


Out of India— Rudyard KipHne.,$i co 
The King of Alberia- 3 y L. D.. i 50 
Fort Reno— By Mrs. D. B. Dyer.. i 00 
Lady Olivia — By Col. I* alkner, ... i cx> 
White Rose of Memphis Do... i 00 
Red Rose of Savannah — A. S. M i 00 
The Pink Rose of Mexico. Do. i 00 
Yellow Rose of New Orleans. “ 100 

It’s a Way Love Has 25 

Zarailla — By Beulah 50 

Florine 50 

Smart Sayings of Children — Paul 1 00 

Crazy History of the U. S 50 

Rocks and Shoals — Swisher ^o 

The Wages of Sin 50 

Idwymon— By Fred’kA. Randle.i t 
iThe Disagreeable Man — A.S. M. 
OurArtist in Spain, etc. — Carleton i 
Dawn to Noon — By Violet Fane, i 
Constance’s Fate. Do . i 
Missing Chord— Lucy Dillingham i 

Ronbar — By R.S. Dement i 

.A Manless World — Yourell 75 

Journey to Mars— Pope i 50 

The Dissolution — Dandelyon.... i 00 

Lion Jack — By P. T, Bamum i 50 

Jack in the Jungle. Do i 50 

Dick Broadhead. Do i 50 

Red Birds Christmas Story ,HoImes i 00 

Flashes from “Ouida” i 25 

Private LettersofaFrenchWoman 75 
Passion’s Dream— W.BoydSample 75 

The Arrows of Love — L.Daii.trey 75 

Eighty-Seven Kisses — By? 75 

Treasury of Knowledge i 00 

Mrs. Spriggins — Widow Bedott... 
Phemie Frost — Ann S. Stephens., i 
Disagreeable Woman — Starr.... 

The Story of a Day in London.. 
|Lone Ranch — By MayneReid.... 1 
The Train Boy— Horatio Alger. . . i 

Dan, The Detective — Alger i 

Death Blow to Spiritualism 

The Sale of Mrs. Adral — Costello 
The N ew Adam and Ev» — Todd. 
Bottom Facts in Spiritualism., z 
The MysteryofCentralPark — Bly 
Debatable Land — R. Dale Owen, a 
Threading My Way, Do. . i 
Princess Nourmahal — Geo. Sand 1 
Galgano’s Wooing — Stebbins.... i 
Stories about Doctors— Jeffreson i 
Stories about Lawyers Do. i 
Doctor Antonio — ByRuffini... — i 50 
Beatrice Cenci — From the Italian. 1 50 

The Story of Mary.... i 50 

Madame — By Frank Lee Benedict i 50 
A Late Remorse. Dc Z 50 

Hammer and Anvil. is 50 

Her Friend Laurence. Do. 250 

L’Assommoir — Zola’s great novv./. i 00 


Miscellaneous Works. 

Mignonnette 


By Sangtoe $i 00 

Jessica— By Mrs. W. H. White i 

Women of To-day. Do 

The Baroness — Joaquin Miller... i 
O.ie Fair Woman. Do. ... i 
The Burnhams — Mrs.G.E.Stewart 2 
Eugene Ridgewood— Paul James i 
Braxton’s Bar — R. M. Daggett. . . i 
Miss Beck — By Tilbury Holt. . . . i 

A Wayward Life i 

Winning Winds — Emerson i 

The Fallen Pillar Saint — Best... i 

An Errand Girl — Johnson i 

Ask Her, Man! Ask Her!... .. i 50' 

Hidden Power — T.H. Tibbie;. 1 50' 

Parson Thorne — E.M. Buckingham i 50 


Errors — By Ruth Carter i 

The Abbess of Jouarre — Renan., i 
Bulwer’s Letters to His Wife.. 2 
Sense — A serious book. Pomeroy, i 

Gold Dust Do. I 

Our Saturday Nights.. Do. 1 

Nonsense — A comic book Do. i 

Brick Dust. Do. Do. i 

Home Harmonies. ... . Do. 1 

Vesta Vane — By L. King, R i 

Kimball’s Novels— 6 vols. PerVol. i 
Warwick -M. T. Walwo’^h 1 50 


50, 


Hotspur 
Lulu. 
Stormcliif. 
Delaplaine. 
Bt, rerly. 
Zahara. 


Do. 

Do. 

Do. 

Do. 

Do. 

Do. 


50, 


The Darling of an Empire 1 

Clip Her Wing, or Let Her Soar i 50; 

Nina’s Peril — By Mrs. Miller i 50 

Marguerite’s Journal — For Girls, i 50' 
Orpheus C. Kerr — Four vols. in one 2 00' 
Perfect Gentleman — Lockwood... i 25! 
Purple and Fine Linen — Fawceit i 50/ 
Pauline’s Trial — L. D. Courtney.. 1 50 

Tancredi — Dr. E. A. Wood i 50; 

Measmefor Measure — Stanley.. 1 50 

A Marvelous Coincidence 50 

Two Men of the World — Bates* , 54 

A God of Gotham — Bascom 5 

Congressman John — MacCarthy 5 
So Runs the World Away...- .. 5;. 

Birds of a Feather — Sothern... , ' 

Every Man His Own Doctor. ^ 

Professional Criminals — Byrnes. 5 co. 
Heart Hungry.Mrs.Wcstmoreland i 50 
Clifford Troupe. Do. 50! 

Price of a Life — R. F. Sturgis.... 1 50 

Marston Hall— L. Ella Byid i 501 

Conquered — By a New Author. ... 1 50' 
Tales from the Popular Operas i sd 

The Fall of Kilman Kon * 5oj 

San Miniato — Mrs. C.V. Hamilton 5' 
All for Her — A Tale of New York, r 5' 




:7QDS 


POPULAR 


-GSt 


NEW BOOKS. 


NEW YORK WEEKLY” SERIES. 

Messrs. Street & Smithy publishers of The New York Weekly, having been 
requested by their readers to issue some of their best and most popular Stories in 
Book Form, have consented, and have now made arrangements for such publica- 
tions with the well-known New York House of 

G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher. 

The volumes already published are as follows : 

Thrown on tho World. — A Novel, by Bertha M. CulY, 

Peerless Catlileen. — A Novel, by Cora Agnew. 

Faithful Margaret. — A Novel, by Annie Ashmore. 

Nick Whiffles.— A Novel, by Dr. J. H. Robinson. 

Lady Leonora. — A Novel, by Carrie Conklin. 

Charity Grinder Papers.— By Mary Kyle Dallas. 

A Bitter Atonement.- A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. 

A Wife’s Tragedy. — A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. 

Curse of Everleigh.— By Helea' Corwin Pierce. 

Love Works Wonders. — A Nov<»l, by Bertha M. Clay. 

Evelyn’s Folly. — A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. 

A Changed Heart. — A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. 

Lady Daiiier’s Secret. — A Novel, bv Bertha M. Clay. 

A Woman’s Temptation. — A Novel, ^y Bertha M. Clay. 
Bro^vnie’s Triumph. — A. Novel, by Mrs. Georgte Sheldon. 

A Wronged Wife. — A Novel, by May A'Gnes Fleming. 

Pride and Passion. — A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. 

Repented at Leisure. — A Novel, by Berth a M. Clay. 

Forsaken Bride. — A Novel, by Mrs. Georgte Sheldon. 

Between Two Loves. — A Novel, by Berth* M. Clay. 

His Other Wife. — A Novel, by Rose Ashleigk. 

Earle Wayne’s Nobility. — By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

A Struggle For a Ring. — A Novel, by Bertha M- Clay. 

Lost — a Pearle. — By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

Maude Percy’s Secret. — A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. 

The Actuess’ Daughter (New). — A Novel, by May Agnes Fleming. 
Young Mrs. Charnleigh. — A Novel, by T. W. Hansh“w. 

Earl’s Atonement. — A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. 

Put Asuuder. — A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. 

A Woman’s Web. — By Rose Ashleigh. 

Beyond Pardon. — A Novel, by Bertha M. Clay. 

Stella Rosevelt. — A Novel, by Mrs. Georgie Shbldoi*- 

Sold by Booksellers everywhere — and sent by mail, postage free, of receipt of 
price, $1.50 each, by 


rSfa G. W. DILLINGHAM CO., Publishers, 

33 WEST 23d STREET, NEW YORK. 




35^ 


. MAY AGNES FLEMING’S 

Popalaft? flovcls. 

©Xgxsx® " 


The following is a list of the Novels by the Author "of 
^^Guy Earlscourt’s Wife’’: 


SILENT AND TRUE. 

A WONDERFUL WOMAN. 
A TERRIBLE SECRET. 
NORINE’S REVENGE. 

A MAD MARRIAGE. 

ONE NIGHT’S MYSTERY. 
KATE DANTON. 

GUY EARLSCOURT’S WIFE. 
HEIR OF CHARLTON. 

THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE. 


CARRIED BY STORM. 
LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

A WIFE’S TRAGEDY. 

A CHANGED HEART. 
PRIDE AND PASSION. 
SHARING HER CRIME. 

A WRONGED WIFE. 
MAUDE PERCY’S SECRET. 
THE ACTRESS’ DAUGHTER. 
EDITH PERCIVAL (New). 


These volumes can be had at any bookstore in the 
cloth-bound library edition. . Price 11.50. 


** Mrs. Fleming’s stories are growing more and more popular every day. Tlieir 
delineations of character, lifelike conversations, flashes of wit, constantly 
varying scenes, and deeply interesting plots combine to place 
their author m the very first rank of modern novelists.” 


A// handsomely printed end bound in doth, sold everywhere, and 
sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price ($1.50), by 



W. DILLINGHAM CO., Publishers, ‘ 
33 WEST 23d STREET|^NEW YORK."' 


illlGUSTA J. EVANS’ 

MAGNIFICENT NOVELS. 


BEXJIj A B[, • • ■ • . 

$1.76 

ST. ELMO, 

2.00 

INEZ, 

1.76 

MAOARIA, * . - - 

1.76 

FASHTI, . . . . 

2.00 

INFELIOE, 

2.00 

AT THE MEROT OP TIBERIUS, 

2.00 


A Prominent Critic ^ys of these Novels : 

^ “ The author's style is beautiful, chaste, and elegant. 
Her ideals are clothed in the most fascinating imagery, and 
her power of delineating character is truly remarkable. One 
of the marked and striking characteristics of each and all 
her works is the purity of sentiment which pervades every 
line, every page, and every chapter." 


AU handsomely printed and bound in doth, sold eiterywhen, 
9nd lent by piail^ postage free, on receipt of price, by 

^ O.W.D illingham Co., Publishers, 

33 W«st S3d Street, New York. 


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